


Persona

by twoandtwomakefive



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: (sort of), Bad Flirting, Case Fic, Fake Identities, Other, Post-Season/Series 12, Someone Did a Murder (But Don't Tell the Doctor), Temporary Amnesia, and we hunted ghosts, because reasons, haha jk.... unless?, in a medieval convent, on both parts (cause they are both idiots), the Doctor is called Petri here, what if we were both amnesiacs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28943073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoandtwomakefive/pseuds/twoandtwomakefive
Summary: ''So things are as follow :Petri is amnesiac. So amnesiac that she isn't even sure that Petri is her real name. (It probably isn't, and tastes all wrong in her brain whenever she thinks it, but it'll have to do for now).She's also stuck in a convent, with nowhere else to go, and people have generally been pretty nice but there's a corpse in one of the rooms and she's pretty sure it isn't because of an accident.(Actually, she would bet on it, had she anything to bet.)And the only person she feels (kind of) safe to disclose that theory (certainty, fact) to is someone who decided that O was a great name.Petri can't remember a damn thing about her life but she's sure she didn't do anything to deserve that.''In which the Doctor and the Master are both stuck in a convent with nothing else to do but a murder to investigate, ghosts to hunt, and a weird Headmistress to try to figure out. After all, anything's better than having to talk about their missing memories or, Rassilon forbid, their feelings.
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 32
Collections: Fiftieth Masterversary Big Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Fiftieth Masterversary Big Bang - happy 50th birthday to this mess of a time lord being ! 
> 
> this fic is complete and i'm working on some final edits, so i'll post a chapter once every week. it also has ART, by the wonderful [hyaesia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyaesia/profile), who you can also find on tumblr @[patrexi](https://patrexi.tumblr.com/)! 
> 
> and shoutout to my amazing beta alchemy for patiently answering my panicked questions at unholy hours, you're the best and i owe you my life

  
  
  
  
\---- 

She breathes.

The scent of wet earth –– earth which still holds a layer of rain in it –– '' _ petrichor _ '', she thinks, and the word rolls easily in her mind, heavy and familiar –– is the first thing she notices. Or no, not really; she notices a lot of things at the same time, so many that she feels either like her head is going to explode or that it'll be too much and end in a great nothingness.

But time passes, and nothing of the sort happens, so she curls her fingers in the mud, feeling the soil enter the space under her fingernails, rubbing against her skin, and. Breathes. Stops. Holds onto the word '' _ Petrichor _ '', thinking how the sounds fit together, the curve and feel of the letters in her mouth, and, slowly, her brain manages to adapt to all the information, filing it under neat little cases should she ever need it again.

There are other smells. She can discern a musty one, coming from mushrooms, and the heady scent of pines, and a fainter, fresh one, tingling at her nose and the back of her eyes, one that makes her smile because it speaks of a broader horizon, of tempests, and adventures, and ships sailing off to faraway countries.

The air on her face is fresh too, cool and invigorating and the sun, slowly worming its way through her clothes and to her skin, warming her to the bones, feels young in a way she can’t describe but very much understands.

It's early morning, the sun, and the air, and the scent, and the thrill of a bird in a tree somewhere near tell her; it's early morning in some woods on Earth, Italy, north Italy, and she's near the sea and it can't be later than the second millenia of what humans called the ''modern era''.

Once she has all of this information, she feels... satisfied, with herself, a surge of pride warming her hearts, and she starts working on the next bits her brains have filed for her. There are a lot, ranging from the two male voices speaking somewhere on her left, to the medical properties of the plant mushed against her cheek, but as she riffles through them, she feels cold dread descend over her.

There are more things missing than there are submerging her brains.

She pokes around and comes across holes the shapes of memories she no longer has. She finds that she doesn't know things like her name, or where she comes from, or her family. She finds that she  _ knows _ things, but doesn't know  _ why  _ or  _ how  _ she knows them. She knows she loves her coat, but not how she found it. She knows there is a species named  _ humans,  _ where she is, and she isn't one of them, and they can't know she isn't.

She knows she feels very, utterly, alone.

But there's nothing more she can do, right now so she. Breathes. Again. Breathes through the wave of panic menacing to submerge her hearts, breathes  _ petrichor _ , again and again, until she no longer chokes on the absence in her brains and rolls on her back to the two people ––  _ humans _ , her brains fulfill,  _ friars _ , it adds after one look at their outfit –– who look surprised but harmless.

''Hi,'' she says, and smiles. Or hopes she does. From the look on the one on the right ( _ short brown hair, freckles, blue eyes, young _ , her brains supplies, and she dismisses it because it's less interesting than its clothes.  _ Tunic, grey, blue, hood _ , and she likes hoods. Hoods are nice), from the way his eyes dart between her and the other human, he is... something. Excited? No, not the right word. Frantic. Anxious. Frightened?

She settles for  _ anxious _ and  _ frightened _ and looks at the other one. Same clothes, with a cord around the waist and a white hood. Except it's not a hood, it's hair, and she has hair too, dangling in front of her face, blonde strands dirty with soil and grease, and she takes them and tucks them between one ear.

''Hi,'' she says again. ''Nice to meet you. I'm...''

Her tongue sticks to her palate and she swallows around a too tight throat.  _ Petrichor, _ she thinks, and breathes, once, twice. ''Petri,'' she says, and watches the humans frown and look at each other.

''I'm Paratello,'' says the one with the hood of white hair. ''And this is Aldo. Are you alright?''

She doesn't know if she is but she decides to nod.

''Was it... bandits? Were you mugged?''

She looks at... A-something? who startles slightly under her gaze. ''I don't know,'' she answers honestly.

A-whatever's frown deepens but White Hair (Pirandello?) speaks first.

''The woods should be safe in this season. More importantly, are you hurt? Any injuries?''

White Hair moves as he talks, towards her, crouching slightly, a hand hovering in the corner of her –– Petri, she reminds herself –– vision. She recoils. ''I'm fine.''

''Very well.'' White Hair stands up. ''Do you live near here? We can walk you back.''

''I...'' She swallows, racks a hand through her hair, lets the other one sink deeper into the soil. ''I don't think so.''

A-something bites his lip and then mumbles,  _ Another one _ , and it's her turn to frown, but White Hair puts a hand on A... ldo? (Aldo!), Aldo's shoulder and looks back at her. ''If you weren't with anyone, we can walk you to the convent, where you can stay until your mind comes back to you. You must have been hit on the head. We have a doctor who can look at you.''

And her first instinct is to protest, say that she's fine and she'll just find her way back, thank you very much, but she doesn't know back to  _ where _ , nor which way, and she hasn't missed the way Aldo's whole body tensed at the mention of a doctor.

Apparently, she's a curious person.

''Okay,'' she says, easily, and smiles, getting to her feet. And she has boots! And pockets, on her coat, in which she promptly tucks her hands.

White Hair (who isn't Aldo) and Aldo (who is Aldo) still haven't moved, and they are looking at her like they weren't expecting her to agree so readily, so she tilts her head to the side and waits for them to start walking.

In one of her coat pockets, her hand closes around a cold, uneven, metallic object, and she holds onto it for the entirety of the walk.

** **

It's not a long walk. They get out of the treeline and find themselves walking on a path zigzagging along the edge of a cliff, and she breathes in the air, relishing in the way the salty tang of the sea clings to the back of her throat.

Not-Aldo is a few steps in front of her, surprisingly alert for his age, and she finds herself falling into step with Aldo, who isn’t looking at her but in a way that suggests he very much wants to look at her.

She runs a finger along the length of the stick in her pocket, letting her nail catch in the bumps and crevices of its surface, and then leans forward, putting her head right under Aldo's eyes, smiling when he jerks back in surprise.

''Hullo,'' she says, and because it seems like a great way to start a conversation, ''I like your hood.''

Aldo fumbles a moment, his hand flying to his hood like she is somehow about to rip it from the rest of the habit and run away with it, and eventually answers with a ''Ah, uh, thanks. It, it's part of the ritual clothing. Everybody has one.'' And when she goes back to a more normal standing position and doesn't reply, he adds ''I like it too.''

''Good. Great taste you have. Are you his son?'' She points a finger in the general direction of Not-Aldo, and Yes-Aldo shooks his head. ''Ah, uh, no. Not his son. His apprentice. He's, he's the botanist, of the, uh, convent. And I'm learning. With him. So I can take his place when he, uh. When the Lord calls him back at His side.''

Petri (she still doesn't know about the name, isn't sure about it, but nothing else comes to her mind at the moment so she decides she'll just. Stick with it until she finds something better), Petri nods and wonders if all humans have to start their sentences with ''Ah, uh'' or it's just particular to this one.

''So you,'' Aldo starts, and she turns to look at him as he bites his lip nervously. ''Um, Petri, right?''

She nods, and he nods too. ''Sorry, I just, you don't, I didn't think that'd be your name? If that makes sense. I'm sorry, I don't mean to be impolite, it's just...'' The human is turning an interesting shade of red, so Petri just looks at him, wondering what this means. He breathes, deeply, as if trying to find his bearings. ''Where does it come from?''

She frowns. ''I don't know. Do names have to come from somewhere?''

''Mine comes from my grand-father,'' Aldo replies. ''And Paratello's comes from his father, and his father's father.''

She thinks about it, and about the feeling of earth under her fingers. ''Then mine comes from my mother,'' she decides, and Aldo nods, again.

''And do you...'' he stammers, hesitates, think a moment before trying again, ''Do you remember anything? About why you're here?''

She thinks about lying to him and making up a story involving horses, maybe a sword and a precious ring, but ultimately decides against it. She doesn't know how long she'll have to spend with him, how long she'll have to be in that convent, and doesn't feel able to sustain elaborate lies for too long.

''No.''

Aldo draws in a sharp breath, like he was expecting it and yet still found himself surprised by the answer, and she has a thousand questions swirling in her mind but Not-Aldo chooses this moment to turn to them and point a finger to the top of the hill they're now walking on, where Petri can see a building surrounded by a grey wall and, on its left, a clearing of what looks like olive trees.

''We're almost there. How are you feeling?''

She shrugs. ''Still fine.''

The man nods and they keep walking. Aldo is back to looking too intently at his sandals, as if trying to weave the stray strands of hay back together through sheer willpower. Petri wonders if that's something she could do.

''Are you afraid of me, Aldo?'' she asks instead of trying it. Not that she doesn't plan on doing it at some point, with less company and more answers.

Aldo's head whips towards her, and she watches as he brings a finger to his teeth to gnaw on the nail. She feels the edges of her own nails with her thumb, and concludes that she isn't a nail biter.

''Why are you asking that?'' Aldo asks, and she looks at the sky.

''You seem afraid. Or anxious. I don't know, I don't think I'm that good with... with people. With their emotions. Bit awkward, me. But are you anxious, Aldo?''

The boy –– he's a boy, she sees now, with too-long limbs and clothes that are a bit too tight on his shoulders –– heaves a sigh and kicks a pebble with the tip of his sandal. They watch as it tumbles down the path, and then the cliff, to fall somewhere far below them. Maybe in the sea, if it's lucky.

''I'm not... afraid,'' he says eventually, his tone biting. ''Just... it's weird. That you're also here, and I guess it's just....'' He trails off then, looks at his master, at the convent getting bigger and bigger with each step, and finally at Petri. ''You'll see the doctor. Maybe we'll... you'll understand then.''

Petri wants to ask many questions, like  _ Why the doctor,  _ and  _ what is there to understand _ , and  _ why does a convent need walls as big as these _ , but they've caught up with Not-Aldo and she doesn't think that Aldo would be willing to say anything in front of his master. Which is another question, that she puts in some corner of her head with all the others.

''We'll just bring you to the doctor's office,'' Not-Aldo says as they approach the doors. ''Then we'll go inform the Headmistress of your arrival. She'll want to welcome you herself.''

Petri nods and looks at the wall surrounding the convent.

It's an old one, but it seems sturdy, stones covered in moss and ivy, and she sees a lizard darting from under the cover of a leaf to find a spot on a thick ball of moss. The stones are uneven, and could offer good holding points, but if someone were to try and climb them, they would be faced with the spades put on top of it. The set of doors they are walking to are as old as the wall (Petri doesn't know why she knows that, but she does) and made of wood, but she can taste the faint tinge of iron in the air.

It all looks like a lot of security for a mere convent lost in the Italian countryside.

Petri is half-expecting someone at the doors, some sort of doorkeeper, to go with the defenses and the whole vibe of the thing, but there's no one to greet them. Only one lone chair, lying on the ground, as if kicked by someone in a haste.

And. Petri may not know much about herself, or why she's here, she doesn't even know her own  _ name _ , but.

There's something happening here and she'll be damned if she doesn't discover why.

''Nice wall,'' she says cheerily. ''Got a lot of attacks around here?''

Not-Aldo throws her a look over his shoulder. ''Bandits, sometimes. We'd rather be careful.''

She nods sagely. ''Of course.'' They are crossing a yard now, and she looks at the windows of the building surrounding them, but can't see anything. Not even the faintest shadow. ''And is there a lot of you around here or is it just you two and a doctor?''

This time it's Aldo who answers. ''We're forty-three. Including the doctor,'' he adds, as if an afterthought.

''Huh.'' She toys with the bumpy stick in her pocket as they enter a corridor, and the sound of their footsteps on the stone floor resonates eerily in the silence surrounding them. ''And did everyone leave for a field trip that you didn't go to because you don't have any friends in the class, or are they just late risers?''

Not-Aldo's voice is remarkably even when he answers, given the way she's seen his step falter. ''Someone must have called a meeting. Which means we have to join it as soon as possible. I hope you won't mind if we just leave you with the doctor.''

''Not minding, that's my middle name,'' she says cheerily, and flashes them a smile when they look at her with brows furrowed in confusion. ''Can't wait to meet this famous doctor of yours,'' she adds, and claps her hands for good measure.

They stop in front of a door and Petri has to admire the universe's sense of timing.

''Just knock and he'll open. Tell him everything you remember. We have to go now.''

And, true to his word, Not-Aldo turns on his heels and walks back on their steps, Aldo following behind him, with one last wave to Petri who has no other choice but to knock on that door. It's not a very particular door, nothing setting it apart from all the other doors they passed on their way to this one, except for the scent coming from it, the thick, heavy one of drying herbs and preserving liquids.

She lifts a hand and thinks about everything she knows about this doctor. About the way Aldo's eyes were darting to the side when he was talking about him, and the confident way Not-Aldo had assumed he would be able to help Petri with whatever was happening to her. She thinks about being a doctor in a remote convent in Italy, and about the lone chair lying on the floor near the doors.

She shrugs, and knocks.

** **

When it's been five minutes and thirty seconds and no one has answered the door, and she can't open it because apparenly people in convents feel the need to have locks on their doors, she lies back against it and weighs her options.

It's not much. She's been...here for less than two hours. Not  _ awake _ , not  _ alive _ , but something in between, Something she doesn't quite know how to quantify. Something that has to do with the weight of knowledge she has, and the levity in her steps coming from all these holes in her brain –– and she doesn't want to stop and think about memories so heavy that their absence made everything so light. And now she’s alone, but her thoughts are so loud that it feels like she’s surrounded by a dozen people, all talking over each other about things ranging from the way the sun plays on the leaves of the tree standing outside the window, to Aldo’s look when she introduced herself. So she grabs the object in her pocket and fishes it out, rolling it in her palm as the metal catches the light coming from the window and reflects it, little spots of white light on the floor, and focuses on it to try to shush all these voices in her brains.

The tip of the stick is kind of weird. Glowy. Orangy, yellowy. It's curved and the shape of it is rough, far from the polished lock on the doctor's door. It looks handmade and she tosses it between her hands, wondering what it could have been for.

There's a bump more pronounced than the others on one side, and when she runs her finger over it, it clicks and for one fraction of a second there's a low hum, coming out of the stick, a buzz filling the air, and she tenses and does it again.

(If there's a click behind her as well, a sign that the door lock opened, forced open by something more powerful than simple metal, she doesn't hear it, too focused on the instrument in her hands.)

Another minute has passed, she knows, and there still isn't any sign of anyone, or any doctor. The... stick, instrument, buzzing thing, in her hand fits right in her palm but she doesn't know what to do with it. (Yet). And there's an itch under her skin, something that makes her toes wriggle in her boots and her eyes wander to the other end of that corridor and beyond the frame of the windows.

Petri pockets the buzzy stick and starts walking in the direction Aldo and Not-Aldo have taken.

** **

  
  


When she reaches the farthest yard, the one on the west side of the convent, behind the main building, she’s welcomed by dark, heavy clouds amassing themselves in front of the sun, and a crowd of friars all standing around a black shape on the ground. 

She doesn’t need to take more than two steps to understand what the shape is.

Petri reels back, as if punched in the gut. There's a dead body on the ground, and the friars around it are crying, some with their faces a careful blank canvas, where only their eyes give away any hint that there's a mourning soul behind it. There is a dead body on the ground and everyone is crossing themselves, muttering prayers under their breaths, eyes closed or looking at the sky.

Petri looks at the body –– she watches, as it's being hauled by two men, its head cradled against a chest covered in sage, and she tries to remember the scent of the earth after the rain, but her nostrils are filled with the sharp smell of  _ iron _ , coating her teeth and tongue, and she finds that she has trouble breathing.

There are splatters of red on the ground, and shards of glass, glinting in between blades of grass, under the harsh sun of mid-morning.

Petri thinks about the sea and running away, someplace far from here.

But then there's a man standing in front of her, wiping his hands with a tissue, hands that are red with blood, and some of it is already drying under his fingernails and filling the creases of skin in his palm, in his knuckles. Petri watches and sees his lips moving, but there's a buzzing in her head and her fingers twitch around the metallic instrument in her pocket.

''… my office,'' the man is saying, and she blinks and tries to focus on the words –– a deep voice, could be soothing, the corner of his lips pulling back over the ''n'' and ''o'' of his sentences –– and wrenches her eyes away from the hands (red hands).

When she meets the man’s eyes, they are expecting, something from her, maybe an answer, so she licks her lips and asks if he could repeat what he just said, she wasn't really listening, and the man... doesn't  _ roll his eyes _ , not exactly, but there's a subtle movement in the general direction of the sky that could look like that.

''Paratello told me about you,'' the man says, and Petri wonders for a moment who this Paratello guy is, before remembering white hair and brown eyes. The man's eyes are brown too, and wide, and unblinking when she holds his gaze. ''I'm the doctor. If you could join me to my office, I'll see what I can do for you.''

The doctor. ''The doctor?''

The man spreads his hands. ''That's me, yes. Sorry for the whole,'' he grimaces and hangs the blood splattered tissue at his belt, ''morbid welcome. I had to check on the body before they took it away. Try to confirm it wasn't a suicide.''

Petri rocks back on her heels. Of course. ''I'm Petri,'' she says, and the man nods.

''I know. I'm O.''

''O?''

And there's a dry smile pulling the corners of the man's lips upwards.

''O.''

Petri raises an eyebrow and tries her best to convince herself that she isn't a rude person going around insulting people's name. ''Well, nice to meet you, O. I guess.''

O lets out a puff of air. ''Yeah. Nice to meet you too. Like I said, sorry for the welcome. I hope you won't take it as a bad omen.''

''Not one for bad omens, me,'' Petri says, before remembering that she has no idea if she is, actually, one for bad omens. And then deciding that it doesn't matter because as Petri she doesn't feel like one so that should be enough to allow this statement. ''Who,'' she swallows, ''who was he? How did he...''

''Slipped,'' O replies, before she finds the words. He starts walking, crossing the yard Petri had just come from, and she follows, falling easily into step next to him. ''I think. He was old, and must have stood too close to that window.''

Petri nods and looks behind her shoulder, to the tower hanging over the yard, and its windows, all covered with bars, except for one, with a hole in its middle the size of a man.

''Couldn't do anything for him,'' O says. ''The landing was fatal. Killed him on the spot. At least he didn't suffer.''

Petri thinks back to the body hanging between the two friars, and the droplets of blood dripping on the ground, from his head all the way to his waist.

''He fell on his head?'' she asks, and O looks at her, something in his eyes she can't quite decipher.

''Yes,'' he says, and Petri bites her lip, because something in this doesn't sit right with her but before she can put her finger on what it is exactly that is troubling her, O takes the key hanging from his belt and she notices that they're back to her good old friend the door.

O puts the key in the lock and starts turning it, but the door opens immediately, and they both frown, and O says  _ Weird _ ,  _ I was sure I locked it _ , and Petri doesn't say anything but there are so many thoughts swirling in her brains that she isn't sure they’ll be able to contain them all.

They step into the room, and O immediately goes to rummage on a shelf, waving to a chair in the middle and telling Petri to sit, he'll be with her in a moment, so she doesn't sit and looks around.

At first glance, and at second and third too, the room is your usual medieval-convent-doctor-office room. Shelves with jars of plants fixed to the walls, spices, dried herbs, other jars with what must be balms and ointments. Dust dancing in the sun coming from the two windows pierced on the wall, framing a desk littered with books and scrolls, and a cooking pot standing precariously on top of a pile of books.

It's the most perfectly banal office, so perfect Petri can't find it in herself to trust it.

''Alright,'' O says, and Petri almost jumps. ''Let's see your head.''

She watches as he walks to her and gestures to the chair, and she doesn't make a single move towards it.

''I'm fine,'' she says, and O raises his eyebrows.

''I've been told you were found lying in the dirt and you can't remember how you came to be like this. That doesn't sound ''fine'' to me.''

Petri frowns and looks at the mattress stacked in one corner of the room, near to a chest with a lock (another one!) on it.

''My head is fine. No bumps.''

''I think I'll be the judge of that,'' O says, and there's a slight veneer of annoyance in his voice. ''The sooner you let me examine you, the sooner it'll be over.''

''What's in that chest?'' Petri asks, and O's left eyebrow twitches but he looks at it, then back at Petri.

''Nothing important.''

''Then why the lock?''

''It came with the furniture,'' O says, and this time the annoyance is clearly palpable in his voice. ''Now please sit so I can go on with my day. I’m a very busy man, you know.''

''You're lying,'' Petri says, and walks to the chest, not paying attention to the annoyed click of the tongue O gives. She takes the lock in her hands and runs a finger over it, then brings it to her mouth and licks.

''Still tastes like fire,'' she says over O's noise of surprise, then disgust. ''It's been recently made. But this chest,'' she leans forward and sniffs the wood, and it smells of dust and mold, ''wasn't. Old chest. Doesn't match.'' She turns to O, and it's her turn to raise her eyebrows. ''You made that lock, didn't you? Recently. Which either means that you got something in the past days precious enough that you decided to build a lock to protect it, or that you just got this chest. And if it's the second option...'' Petri jumps back to her feet, and frowns at O, who is maintaining perfectly schooled features, ''when did you say you joined this convent, again?''

O scoffs, and it's annoyed but there's a twinkle in his eyes that tells Petri he's... something. Excited, maybe? At least not as stoic as he wants her to think. ''I didn't say,'' he says, and Petri is about to nudge him more, but he keeps talking before she has the chance to. ''Because I didn't join.''

And there it is again, that tight feeling in her chest, except this time it's less frightening, it's not anxious, it's a tightness that makes her feel light-headed with how clear and sharp the world looks to her and the deductions her brains come to before she has even the time to understand them.

''You're new,'' she says, and O nods. ''How new? Last month? Last week? You can't be  _ that _ new, or they wouldn't trust you to be their doctor, would they?''

''Six days ago,'' O cuts in, and she snaps her fingers and resists the urge to bounce on her feets.

''Very new. How can you be so new? Did you...'' she looks at the books and the scrolls on the desk, ''were they in need of a doctor? Did they call for you? Are you just filling a spot? Or...''

''Or?'' O prompts her, and her brains are going a thousand miles per second and she's never felt more alive since she first breathed in the scent of the earth after rain.

''Or,'' she repeats, and thinks back to Aldo muttering  _ Another one _ , and saying  _ Forty-three, with the doctor _ , and Not-Aldo knowing –– assuming, thinking –– that the doctor would know how to take care of her.

''Or they found you too. Just like me.''

O smirks and leans against the desk, his hands resting on the edges behind him. ''Wandering in the woods, with no memories of how I came to be here.''

Petri's breath catches in her chest and O's eyes are big and searching, and asking something, and she thinks about.

Being alike.

Being lost and having two heartbeats in her chest, and too many brains in her head, and knowing the people in front of her only had one of each.

''Like me,'' she says, and O nods.

''I can't have you examine me,'' she adds, and O's eyes sharpen.

''Why?'' he asks.

She licks her lips. ''I'm not from... around here.''

''How do you know? Do you remember anything from your past?''

''I don't.'' She looks at him, at his eyes, and wonders if the blood behind his ears is mapping a  _ one, two, three, four _ rhythm.

''I don't either,'' O offers. ''I don't even know my name. But I like the one I choose.''

''It's a terrible name,'' Petri says frankly, and he smiles, and she feels the tightness in her chest loosen.

''I'm not from around here either,'' O says then, carefully, but before she has any chance to respond, to maybe put a hand on his chest and feel the beating of twin hearts, there's a knock on the door, and a friar, one she doesn't know, is asking if the doctor can come, there's an apprentice not feeling well, nerves, anxiety maybe, and O mumbles a  _ sure _ and goes to fetch some kind of onguent before leaving with one last nod to Petri, telling her to  _ Go find Aldo, he must be in the garden, he'll show you to your room and answer all your questions _ , and then she's alone, again.

So she goes to find Aldo.

** **

The sky has entirely disappeared behind grey clouds by the time she manages to find Aldo, crouching over a plant she can't quite identify. He's in what could be called a garden, on the north side of the convent, where the wall is partly disappearing behind branches of honeysuckle and tomato plants.

''I'm sorry,'' is the first thing she says, because Aldo's eyes are red and his freckles stand out sharply against the pallor of his cheeks. Aldo nods and bends further to pick some leaves of mint.

''The doctor said it was an accident,'' she adds when he doesn't reply. ''That he slipped and fell.''

''He was old. He did a lot for this convent. The Lord decided it was time for him to be back at His side.'’

Aldo's words have a certainty his eyes lack. Petri takes a step towards him.

''I don't even know his name. Who was he?''

''Salvatore was a good man,'' Aldo says fiercely. ''He saw most of us grow up, and was always the first to pray for a lost soul. He devoted his life to the service of the Lord and of His creatures, and never changed even when some...'' Aldo trails off, looking around him, then clears his throat. ''Never changed.''

And it's a wonder, how Aldo's eyes keep darting off to the side, how his hands clench and unclench on those leaves of mint, until they are nothing more than streaks of green over his palms. Petri takes in the dark creases under his eyes, and the slight shivering of his legs, where he crouches, and thinks it's more than grief she can read in the tense lines of the boy's shoulders.

But it's not like she can say that, not out loud, when Aldo seems one bad word away from leaping over that wall and into the forest, or maybe faint on the ground. So instead she asks when the burial is.

''End of the day, after tomorrow. We'll hold wakes tonight and the next, and pray for him all week. You're welcome to join in.''

Petri is rather sure she won't, but she thanks Aldo nonetheless, and then tackles the one thing that pushed her to seek Aldo out –– not that she doesn't care about having a room, but... well, actually, right now, she kind of does.

''Can I see the body? So I can, um,” Aldo looks at her and she fumbles to find a good reason that she would want to see a recently made corpse, ''pay my respect. I don't know if I, uh, if I will be able to attend the wake tonight so I'd like to. To do it now. If that's ok. Can I?''

Aldo heaves a sigh and gets to his feet. Petri is glad he doesn't ask any questions and simply starts leading her away from the garden and to a small building, in front of which friars come and go. She has the feeling that in other places or times this question would have been received with more stares, but here Aldo is simply making his way through the friars and into the room, where the body lays on a table at the center of the room, arms crossed on his chest, men with their heads bowed and hands joined in front of them standing over it.

Petri doesn't come too close, choosing instead to stay near the door, and looks at the closed eyes of the dead, at the smoothed out lines of his face and at the weird angle at which his head is laying on the wood. His tunic has been replaced with a robe, and the white of the fabric is a weak contrast to the milky-blue hue of the limbs it enfolds.

''Do you know where they put his clothes?'' she whispers at Aldo, who's standing at her side, and he doesn't even react, numbed by grief as he is, simply points to another table, a small one, against the back wall, where a stack of clothes have been neatly folded next to a collection of trinkets.

Petri gives a thumbs up, which somehow is the first thing to actually prompt a reaction out of Aldo, who blinks furiously at it and then at Petri as she walks discreetly and furtively and spy-likely (a word she's ready to coin whenever the world is ready for it) towards the clothes. It doesn't take long to spot what she's looking for, once she has her hands on the tunic, and she steps back with her hands in the air when Aldo grabs her arm and hisses  _ What are you doing _ .

''Thought I'd seen something,'' she says, and blabbers some more excuses as Aldo drags her out of the room, mumbling excuses to everyone they pass by.

''I'm showing you to your room,'' Aldo says as soon as they're out of earshot. ''Dinner is at sunset,'' and right, she has missed lunch hasn't she, with all the snooping around she did before finding Aldo, but her stomach doesn't protest so she gathers she isn't someone with a regular eating schedule, ''it would be... welcomed, if you didn't move until then.''

Petri doesn't bother answering that.

** **

So things are as follow :

Petri is amnesiac. She's completely, totally amnesiac. So amnesiac that she, in fact, isn't even sure if Petri is her real name. (It probably isn't, and tastes all wrong in her brain whenever she thinks it, but it'll have to do for now).

She's also stuck in a convent, with nowhere else to go, and people have generally been pretty nice, as far as she can tell, but there's a corpse in one of the rooms and she's pretty sure it isn't because of an accident.

(Actually, she would bet on it, had she anything to bet.)

And the only person she feels (kind of) safe to disclose that theory (certainty, fact) to is someone who decided that  _ O  _ was a great name.

Petri sighs and wonders if what she did in her life (past life?) was really that bad for her to deserve that.

** **

O opens the door on the fifth knock.

''That friar was murdered and I know you know it,'' Petri says, and then enters the room and closes the door behind her before O has the time to say anything.

O lifts a hand to his eyes, then brushes his hair out of his face. ''Did that sound better in your head?''

''Nope,'' Petri says, popping out the 'p'. ''It sounded good and was just as good to say. Why didn't you say anything?''

''Why do you think it wasn't an accident?'' O counters. Petri grabs an apple from the worktable and hops onto the chest (still locked), taking a bite before answering, ''Saw the tunic. It was punctured. Knife-like hole in it.''

''Could have happened any other way. There are thorns in the garden.''

''Knife-like hole with dry blood around it,'' Petri says. ''Looks pretty murdery to me.''

''Say it's true. How would you have known to look for it?''

''I'm apparently a very clever person, that's how.'' She takes another bite and raises her eyebrow at O, who's taken to leaning against the table and crossing his arms in what he thinks probably is an intimidating way.

Petri is not intimidated.

''So,'' she repeats, ''why didn't you say anything?''

O snorts.

''If you really were clever you'd know why.''

''Hey,'' she protests. ''I'm clever. I deduced that really quickly in a very clever way.''

''Whatever you say.'' She frowns and sticks her tongue out at him, and it only makes him snort louder. She definitely thinks this is a very ridiculous snort.

''Think about it a minute. The weird doctor who just came in less than a week ago and knows a ton of stuff that they don't, and who has lost his memory, suddenly declares that one of the friars in this very pious, very devout convent, is a murderer? On the same day another person who also happens to have memory troubles and weird clothes arrives? Not suspicious at all.''

Petri's very close to having her mouth hang open. ''You think they'd accuse... us?'' she gasps. ''But I wasn't even here when that happened! We don't even know each other!''

O's eyes sharpen. ''Are you really sure about that?''

''We don't even know each other  _ right now _ ,'' Petri says. ''And for all I know you were a... a burglar, who tried to steal my, uh, my precious jewelry and during the battle we both hit each other really hard on the head so we lost our memories. So that would mean that this is all your fault.''

''Right. That is unbeatable logic for sure.'' Petri considers throwing her apple at O's head, which he would deserve for all this unnecessary sarcasm, but ultimately decides that he's not worth wasting a perfectly edible apple. ''I do think we knew each other,'' O adds, and Petri nods, ''and not in a burglar and victim kind of way. Although if it were you'd one hundred percent be the burglar in the scenario.''

Petri is... fine with that, so she doesn't say anything and eats some more of her apple. (She's also fine with the fact that they've both reached the same conclusions, and that she doesn't need to put her hand to O's chest to know that there are twin hearts beating in it. She held his gaze and he held hers when saying ''one hundred percent'' and other words someone in this time shouldn't know.

They know, and if he doesn't feel the need to speak about it, she's fine with it.)

''So you're saying you didn't kill him?'' is the next thing she asks, and it's worth it to see O's eyes grow even wider than they are usually and his hands fly in the air

''You're joking right?'' he says after what Petri's sure was some choking on his words. ''Tell me you're joking.''

She shrugs. ''Maybe.''

O puts his hair back in place. ''Because, if you're not, it would be a pretty bad move to just come to the murderer and tell them to their face that they did a crime.''

And here's something funny about losing one's memory : Petri can't remember her name, can't remember her parents or where she comes from, if she has any friends or if she likes tea better than coffee. But she knows things, little things, like the fact that the white rectangle in the corner of O's room is a mattress, how to find thirty-six's square root, and that Hercule Poirot never gets murdered (except when he does).

Petri smiles. ''But the murderer never kills the detective, so I should be safe.'' And O raises his hands, palms up, in an universal gesture of surrender, an exasperated but still amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and Petri swallows the last of her apple.

''Right. I'm going to the library tonight. Look if I can find something, some hint on who did the murder. You're coming with me.''

O rolls his eyes and sighs heavily, which is pretty much as clear a ''yes'' as he can give, and Petri thinks about ruffling his hair (which absolutely doesn’t look soft) on the way out.

** **

When Petri finally reaches the library that night, having dragged a kicking and screaming O with her, she almost lets out a sigh of relief. Of course, she should have known that being faced with their goal wouldn’t stop O from being his usual annoying self.

''How long do you plan on just standing there?'' she hisses, impatiently. ''The proof won't just come falling into our hands!''

''Wouldn't that be nice, though,'' O says calmly, still fiddling with the lock.

''Nice? It would take out all the fun! And what on Earth are you doing to that poor lock?''

''Watching our backs.'' There is a small noise and O gets back on his feet, clicking his tongue, a smug expression on his face. ''There, no one will be able to get in now. No need to thank me.''

''Great, I wasn't going to. Can we start now?''

O rolls his eyes, but she doesn't care anymore (not that she ever does). She turns to the inside of the library, which looks exactly like she imagined it. The shelves are numerous, more or less neatly tidied up, the ceiling is high and crossed by painted arches, and it smells like old books.

''So, what are we looking for?'' O asks, looking around, and Petri shrugged.

''Anything. Traces of a fight. Books where there shouldn't be books. Blood. The murder weapon. A nice little note left by the murderer explaining what happened and signed with their name. That kind of things.''

''Sass doesn't suit you at all, darling.''

Petri scoffs. ''Please. That's all you like about me.''

O doesn't bother answering and instead grabs a candle from the nearest study table. Petri eyes it distrustfully.

''What do you need a candle for? We can see perfectly well.''

''For now maybe,'' O says, rummaging through his pockets, ''but there's going to be a storm tonight and I'd like some light while looking for clues for a murder that may not have happened, at midnight, in a library we are not supposed to be in.''

Petri watches, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, as O fishes a match from one pocket with a little noise of triumph and uses it to lit the candle. The flame starts out strong, projecting large shadows on the wall behind them and carving O's face in shadows and light. 

O smiles and she mirrors it.

''So what you're trying to say is that you're scared of the dark.''

O's indignant stammering follows her as she walks deeper between the rows of books, laughing. But secretly, she's… happy, in a way, for the light, as feeble as it is. The large windows carved into the walls let in a grey, start of the night light, but it's weak and disappearing by the minute, and the simple idea of being left alone in the dark, it’s, well. It makes her blood freeze in pure terror, to put it plainly.

Not that she would ever admit it, and surely not to the man following her with the only candle available.

''It's a nice library,'' she says instead, brushing a finger against books spines as she passes by them. ''Very cosy.'' Her finger comes back devoid of dust and she frowns. ''Very clean.''

''Yeah, they're a bit manic,'' O says. ''There's a guy coming in to clean my room, like twice a day.''

''Poor guy. I hope they raised his pay.'’

''Such a clown you ate.''

Petri rolls her eyes. Around them, the shelves are stretching endlessly, covered in dancing shadows as the candle's flame keeps flickering away, under the effect of an invisible draft.

She sucks in a breath as her brains tingle.

''We need to go this way—''

''Since that's where the draft is coming from and hence where the broken window is. Only took you so long.'' O drawls.

Petri opens her mouth, then closes it, then catches back with O –– the  _ jerk _ –– who had gone past her. They walk a few seconds in a silence that is everything but companionable.

''You're insufferable,'' she says eventually.

''Thanks.''

''You're not welcome. How huge is this library supposed to be?''

''Very. Do you ever shut up?''

''Yes.'' She thinks about it. ''No.''

O sighs, which she takes as a personal victory.

''I bet you don't even like silence that much.''

''Yeah, that's why I'm in a convent.'' Petri rolls her eyes at the snarky answer, refraining from bumping O's shoulders in retaliation.

''You didn't choose to be here though,'' she points out. ''Or did you?''

O puts his free hand over his hearts, in fake shock. ''I'm not answering such a personal question until you buy me dinner.''

Petri doesn't feel the need to gratify him with an answer as they have just come into view of the broken window. The breeze has been getting stronger as the night fell, and O puts a hand around the candle's flame to protect it, eyes darting everywhere around him, his face lit by the wild flame.

When they reach the window, their candle is nearly the only source of light in the library. The space in front of the window is mostly empty, a lone table standing nearby with a stack of books on top of it. Petri walks towards it, taking in the stray sheets that have fallen to the floor, the candlestick standing on the edge of the table, the hole in the middle of what had probably been a beautiful stained-glass window, now presenting its jagged edges to the world. She runs a finger along the wood of the table, then takes a few steps towards the window and draws the contours of the hole with the tips of her fingers.

''You're going to cut yourself and we won't be able to differenciate your blood from the victim's'', O says, somewhere behind her. Petri doesn't react, and leans forward, looking at the ground below, where the moon is glinting off the shards of broken glass, lying haphazardly in the yard. 

''He must have been pushed,'' she says. ''There's no way he just fell.''

''Try standing right here a little bit longer and we'll see.''

Petri turns around with a frown. ''Are you threatening me right now?''

O shoots her a smile full of teeth. ''Am I?''

Petri rolls her eyes, something that seems to become something of a recurring action when she is near O, and throws one last look at the ground, to check that she didn't miss any kind of clues, and not to prove that she isn't afraid of any threats. Then she takes a step back to look at the window itself more closely.

It's damaged, too damaged to properly make out what the motif etched on it had been. Spiderwebs cracks run from the edges along the structure, threatening to grow and reduce the whole thing to shards and dust at any moment. On the top left corner, Petri can barely see a square-shaped motive, surrounded by a golden halo, with a touch of deep, bright blue right below it, and she refrains from brushing it with a finger, fearing that it would shatter it.

''Hey,'' she calls over her shoulder, and O looks up from the book he was looking at, ''do you know what was drawn?''

O frowns. ''I'm not sure, I only went here once for the grand tour. I think it has something to do with their founding myth. Something about a pandora box and a divine gift.''

''A Pandora Box?''

O sighs and closes the book. ''If I recall correctly, the founding father of this convent was given a treasure from an angel, along with a demonic trove, and the mission to protect the first and to keep the second away from us weak mortals who could fall prey to its influence.’’ Sarcasm is dripping from his voice, but he seems to have launched into the story, and Petri shifts slightly to find a better standing position. “That's why he founded the convent in the first place. According to the legend, both of them are still somewhere between these walls, waiting for the angel to come back and claim them. They say the wall –– you know, the one surrounding the convent –– is here to protect them, and that only one person knows the way to where they are hidden. Apparently, the secret is passed down generations. The keeper of the secret chooses an apprentice and passes on the keys to the secret on their deathbed.'' O draws a short breath. ''They say if you combine these gifts, then you will have the power of a god.''

Petri slowly lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. O had a lost look in his eyes, his fingers drumming an insistent rhythm on the table, a one two three four that resonates strangely with the beating of her own hearts in her ears. She speaks slowly, careful to keep her voice low in the strange chill that has filled the space between them. ''And who is the keeper supposed to be today?''

O's tongue darts out, wetting his lips as the constant tapping of his fingers falters. ''I don't know,'' he admits, and blinks. ''With your luck we'll discover that it was Salvatore.''

Petri blinks too, and then snorts, and with that whatever spell had fallen on them is broken. ''That would be helpful actually,'' she says, and O’s lips purses up slightly. ''Sure would make for a good mobile.''

''Well, at least there's nothing about that in these books,'' O declares, tossing away the book he was holding and pointing at the stacks on the table at large. ''No help here.''

''Right.'' Petri drops to her knees and licks a broad stripe on the floor, all in a swift move she’s rather proud of. ''But there might be some here,'' she says, triumphantly, covering up O's bewildered _ What!? _ .

She springs back up to her feet, and runs to take the candle from O, and then goes back to a crouching position over the floor. ''Tasted like iron,'' she says when O's feet appear in her sight. She shuffles a bit to the left, looking intently at the wooden panels. ''Which means that there must be... aha!''

Somewhere above her, O makes a wheezing sound, like he's choking on thin air.

''I- what- no. You know what, I'm not accepting that you just found a bloodstain by licking the floor. Is that just something you do naturally? Is that you go-to method of detecting?''

''Oh ye of little faith,'' Petri singsongs. ''But here is your proof.''

''Maybe a friar just had a nosebleed,'' O says. ''That can happen.''

''I can lick this blood and then compare it to Salvatore's blood if that's what you need,'' Petri deadpans.

''How would you... No, don't answer that.'' Petri grins. ''Alright, let's say I believe you,'' O sighs, and sits down next to her on the ground, racking a hand through his hair. Petri bats at his thigh to make sure he won't sit on the stain, which gets her an eyeroll. ''What happens next? We set on a righteous crusade to find a murderer that could be anyone?''

''Exactly.''

''Somehow I was sure you would say that.'' O groans and dischevels his hair a tad more. ''And how do you plan of doing this?''

''You know,'' Petri waves a hand around, trying to downplay the rising excitement that's bubbling in her chest, ''detective stuff. Ask people for their alibis, find out the murderer's motives, this sort of thing.''

''Right,'' O drawls. ''A true Sherlock Holmes.''

''I rather fancy myself as a Poirot actually.'' 

O tilts his head a bit. ''I can see the resemblance. A mustache would suit you.''

''Thanks! I think so too.''

It gets her another eye roll from O, but this time it seems almost fond.

''In this case you should probably start with the Headmistress. She's pretty... unusual in her own genre.''

Petri frowns. ''What do you mean?''

And then many things happen at once :

''You'll understand when you meet her,'' O says, in the least helpful way ever,

a light that isn't theirs flicker in the corner of Petri's eyes, and

a laugh that doesn't come from any of them resonates in the library.

''Or,'' she says slowly, and watches O's whole body tense, his eyes jumping to the side where the light comes from, ''we could just ask the murderer right here and now.''

''I hate you,'' O whispers, as they carefully get back to their feet. ''Why do you immediately have to assume it's the murderer? Just because someone wants to look at some book in the middle of the night doesn't automatically make them a murderer.''

''Maybe but not everyone wants to look at some book in the middle of the night in a library where a murder happened less that twenty-four hours ago.''

''Why not? We're not murderers and we're here.''

Petri groans. ''We've got to stop saying ''murderer'' now, we're going to summon one at this rate,'' and O nods, before blowing the candle's flame out.

They move slowly towards the rows of shelves, trying to localize the exact source of the light. It's a difficult task –– the faint hue keeps flickering in and out of existence, bathing entire shelves in a washed out blue light before disappearing entirely, and then reappearing three rows away. It's puzzling, like someone is running around with a torch they randomly light up, with no discernable patterns nor intent. Petri and O sneak between the shelves, chasing the source of the glow, and yet not sure why they feel the need to stay out of the light itself, the simple thought of this pale blue gleam reaching them sending shivers up their skin.

''I don't like that,'' O mutters, as the light reappears right next to them, its edges stopping just before their shoes. Petri understands him way too much to make fun of him. She doesn't like that either.

''They must be behind that shelf,'' she says instead, and O clenches his jaw.

''Let's take a look then,'' he says.

They round the corner together, Petri a book in one hand, and O with the candlestick.  _ Like a bad Cluedo setup _ , Petri thinks nonsensically, and then stops thinking entirely.

''I know I'm saying that a lot,'' O lets out in a hoarse whisper, ''but what the fuck.''

Petri doesn't answer –– can only look at the two children running around each other, laughing a laugh she can't hear and shouting names that don't make it past their lips. They are glowing –– or rather, they are illuminated, the pale glow stronger around them, shining in the curly hair of the blonde one, dancing in the green eyes of the other one. But Petri can barely make out those colours; they are faded, faltering at the edges, like drawings on the pages of very old books, where the ink has drained out, leaving behind only remnants of pigments barely visible after the centuries.

Petri takes in a shuddering breath, as the light of the candle goes off, leaving them in the dark with nothing but the pale hue of the apparitions to illuminate the room.

But the boys have stopped running now, the light standing still in the middle of the rows of books, and they stand in front of each other, their mouths moving around words that don’t reach Petri’s ears. At their feet, blades of grass are dancing in an invisible breeze, caressing their ankles with red tendrils. They aren't laughing anymore, but looking at each other with a peaceful smile and eyes too fond for their age. The blonde one is gesturing wildly, and Petri can't make out the words on his lips, but can see his animation and enthusiasm. 

It makes something hurt, in her chest, in a way she can’t quite identify, but knows has something to do –– maybe, maybe not, somewhere she hopes it’s not wishful thinking –– with the void that is her life. 

Next to her, O shifts.

She almost jumps. She had completely forgotten him. O doesn't tear his eyes from the boys when she looks at him, but bits his lips nervously, his voice coming out as barely more than a whisper.

''Ghosts...?''

Petri didn't have to question her beliefs in ghosts in the short time in which she had had her memory, but she wouldn't have put herself as someone who believed in them. Now…

Now she isn't sure what to think anymore.

But she doesn't have to answer; the blonde boy has raised his eyes and is now looking directly at her and. She just –– she freezes, as the brown eyes stare right into her own. Doesn't hear O walking back a few steps. Doesn't hear his soft words of warning either, as the blue light grows, and grows to encompass the shelves next to her, lapping over her shoes, then her legs, in a way that makes her stomach lurch and all the hair on her body stand straight.

She can't move, and when the boy starts walking again, this time towards her, she stands still in her spot, unable to do anything else than watch as the glow covers her entire body and the boy comes so close she could touch him if she were to lift a finger –– and then he's running, past her,  _ through her _ , and her hearts hurt so much she thinks they are going to explode.

Then everything turns to black and she passes out before her head touches the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

When Petri wakes up, the sun is filtering through the window above her bed, and her entire body is sore, like she was run over by a truck. She's pretty sure she wasn't. But her head hurts, and the light is too bright, and her tongue is dry and heavy in her mouth, and all in all, she feels like shit.

It doesn't help when her gaze falls on the foot of her bed, where a woman in a purple dress is standing, lips pursed in a too-sharp smile, looking at her with eyes the coldest blue she's ever seen.

''Hi,'' Petri says, or tries to. It comes out as a rather garbled mix of sound, and the woman's smile grows, opening on a flash of white teeth.

''Good morning,'' the woman answers, in a voice Petri wouldn't have thought would be so high pitched, trilling through her eardrums. She whines and flops back on her pillow.

''We’ve brought you clothes,'' the woman says, unfazed. ''Put them on, so we can head for breakfast.''

Her tone doesn't leave room for protest, but Petri groans and props herself up on her elbows to look at her. She feels like her head is going to explode.

''Breakfast?''

''Breakfast,'' the woman confirms, and stands up from the bed. ''The sooner the better.''

''Can I just,'' Petri slowly sits up, hair falling in front of her eyes, that she tries to push back, ''have five more minutes? Had some trouble falling asleep last night, what with all that happened yesterday,'' and she tries to move her hand in a way that would encompass the last day, but doesn't seem to impress the woman. ''I'm still a bit tired,'' she ends, in slight desperation.

The woman claps her hands. It's loud. Petri kind of wants to die. ''That's why a healthy breakfast is everything you need to get back on your feet,'' she enthuses, and walks to the door with a spring in her steps. ''Come on, up you go, I don't have all day!''

Petri considers ignoring her entirely and going back to sleep, which she feels should be her right, but the woman's nails are sharp and her smile has a way to hook itself behind Petri's ribs and tug at her hearts in a way that would be endearing if it wasn't also terrifying. Plus, she talks with an accent Petri hasn't heard yet, one that catches on some words and makes vowels pop, and, to be entirely honest, Petri is... intrigued.

(Also she really, really wants to know what happened in that library.)

So she gets up, under the watchful gaze of the woman, takes one look at the tunic carefully folded on the chair next to her bed, and grabs her coat from where it was lying on top of her sheets. Her boots are next to the chair and she slips them on, deliberately ignoring the sandals waiting for her there. She brushes her hair out of her face and strides towards the woman, all smiles and quick movements that she hopes are doing a good job of hiding in how much pain she's right now.

The woman crosses the door before Petri even has the time to say anything.

''You took so long to wake up, my poor dear,'' the woman says when Petri catches up with her in the corridors. She's walking at a brisk pace, twirling an umbrella in one hand that Petri could've sworn she didn't have in her bedroom. ''I was almost ready to take care of it myself.''

Petri gulps. Right. She isn't sure she wants to know what that means. ''I'm not sure I caught your name,'' she inquires, and tries not to think about how long the woman stood at the foot of her bed, watching her sleep.

(Probably not that long, she tells herself, but there's a glint in the woman's eyes that could mean anything.)

The woman looks at her from under her eyelashes. ''I'm Missy,'' she says, almost coyly, and her lips open briefly. ''I'm the Headmistress of this convent.''

''Oh.'' Petri doesn't look at the red around her mouth, and wonders instead what it means that the Headmistress herself came to greet her good morning, the night after she did some breaking and entering in the convent's library where a murder happened. ''Nice to meet you. I'm Petri.''

''So I heard.'' There's a smirk tugging at the corners of Missy's lips, one that she doesn't bother soothing out, and Petri feels her cheeks heating up. Missy's eyes aren't leaving her face, like she's searching for something, but Petri doesn't know what, and doesn't know why it makes her feel so uncomfortable and wrongfooted. ''It's an unusual name, Petri. Any reason why you chose it?''

''I-'' Petri's tongue sticks to her palate, as she isn't sure what Missy means with that. She told the friars Petri was her name; they don't have any reason to suspect it's not her real one, even if she forgot everything else. But for some reason, the woman immediately assumed that Petri had chosen it by herself, and...

They just met, but Petri feels like this woman knows more about herself than she does.

''I liked it,'' she says, when the silence stretches and Missy hums, frowning like she was expecting this kind of answer but is still disappointed by it.

''Well,'' Missy says, ''I'm not particularly fond of it.''

It's vexing, to say the least, and as much as Petri finds that she has trouble adjusting to this name, it stings probably more than it should have.

They reach a flight of stairs, and Petri realizes that their little escapade last night must've tired her much more than expected since she comes out on top with a shaky breath. Missy seems perfectly unfazed and goes to open a door next to the staircase, the only door Petri has seen so far that’s so heavily decorated.

''Snacks!' Missy exclaims, and claps her hands together. Petri follows her inside the brightly lit room, great windows letting in the sunlight. There's a table on the center, dressed with food, ranging from heaps of sausages to pieces of bread smelling like they have just gotten out of the oven.

Petri's stomach grumbles and she realizes for the first time that she's hungry.

''Take a seat,'' Missy gestures vaguely to a chair on one end of the table. ''And eat as much as you want. These guys would waste it anyway.''

Petri frowns.

''These guys?'' she repeats. ''But you said you were the Headmistress?''

Missy sits down on the other end, delicately folding the fabric of her skirts around her. She's the only one Petri's seen so far who doesn't wear a tunic. She wonders if an exception to the code is allowed to the Headmistress only, or if there's something more to it.

''And I also told you to sit down,'' Missy says icily. Then, as Petri isn't moving, '' _Sit_.''

Slowly, Petri pulls a chair. She doesn't stop looking at Missy the whole time, and the Headmistress grins when she lets herself fall on it, crossing her arms over her chest.

''Good girl,'' Missy praises, and Petri's glare hardens.

''Why did you bring me here?''

''I told you,'' Missy clicks her tongue. ''We need to get some food in you. You weren't with us last night for dinner.''

It's said in a vaguely accusing tone and Petri is on the defensive immediately.

''I didn't know I was supposed to be anywhere.''

''Well now you know. I expect you to be present for all the meals, as we all do. You have free reign to go around and do all the snooping you want in the meantime, but I want you in the common hall for dinner. Is that understood?''

Petri feels her cheeks burn but holds Missy's gaze. Wonders what she knows exactly. ''You seem very devoted to this convent.''

''I am simply fulfilling my duty, nothing more,'' Missy answers humbly. Except the more Petri talks with the woman, the more she's sure there's nothing humble about her. ''I have to take care of everyone in the convent, and that's including hosts, like you and our dear doctor.''

''You mean O?''

Missy purses her lips and pushes a bowl filled with tomatoes towards Petri. ''Eat, that's why we're here.''

Petri looks at the tomatoes, then at Missy, then back at the tomatoes. She grabs one. ''O came here right before me, is that right?''

''I thought he'd have told you everything already.'' Missy reaches out and plucks a small piece of bread from a plate. ''I heard that you two have become best buds.''

Petri frowns. ''That seems like a wild exaggeration. And he didn't tell me anything, I figured it all out by myself.''

Missy sighs. ''Of course you did.'' Before Petri can wonder what that means, a small knife slides in between Missy's fingers, coming from seemingly nowhere, and the sun glints off the sharpened blade, sending white spots dancing all over the room. Petri's breath catches in her throat.

''I'm the one who found him,'' Missy goes on saying as she uses the knife to spread butter on the piece of bread with small, precise movements. It's almost mesmerizing, as much as the act of buttering a toast can be mesmerizing. ''You should have seen him, the poor boy. All lost and terrified. He practically attacked me when he first saw me, and then wouldn't leave me. I'm glad he found a friend.''

Petri bites into her tomato. ''I wouldn't call us friends.''

It doesn't seem like the right thing to say. The delicate lines between Missy's brows creases, her eyes flaring for just the fraction of a second before she settles back into her carefully crafted mask of poised indifference. A portion of the toast crumbles between her fingers. ''Really now. You two do seem to get on very well though.''

''You could say that, I guess.'' Petri leans forward a little. ''Where did you find him?''

''Wandering in the forest, just like you.'' Missy puts her toast aside and starts on another one. Petri almost feels bad for the poor piece of bread subjected to her ruthless knife technique. ''He was adamant he had been alone. Your arrival seems to be putting this into perspective.''

''I don't-''

''It left me wondering,'' Missy pursues, ignoring Petri's weak protest, ''why exactly you two are here for. What it means that you've both lost your memories, turned up at the exact same spot, but one week apart. And most of all how you came to be here. ''

Petri frowns. ''What do you mean, 'how'?''

''Nothing more than the very simple question of why two people with extravagant clothing and strange demeanours happened to turn up at my frankly unremarkable convent.'' Missy sets her other toast near the first one and reaches out for a single olive. ''Why ‘Petri’?''

Petri blinks, taken aback by the sudden change of topic. ''Wh-''

Missy waves her olive at her. ''Don't try that with me. If O couldn't remember his name, I don't see why you could. So, why ‘Petri’? Why not, I don't know, ‘Joan’?''

''Joan?''

Missy shrugs. ''Just a simple suggestion. Thought you might like it.''

''I like 'Petri','' Petri protests. ''I'm not changing it.''

''Do you now.''

And maybe Missy has a point and Petri doesn't really like her name that much, but it's the best she has for now and 'Joan' doesn't really appeal to her. It sounds too much like a name she'd choose if she wanted to blend in, disappear behind an alias, and that's not what she wants right now. Not when she's trying to figure out who she is. At least 'Petri' has something unique to it, something she can cling to while looking for things to fill the holes in her memory.

''I can't say I'm that surprised,'' Missy sighs eventually, and Petri watches in horrified fascination as she suddenly digs her nails into the olive's skin and spreads it open, removing the core, before putting it on the table and throwing the discarded pulp aside. ''O didn't really like the names I suggested to him either. But as it appears, I... misjudged his character quite a bit.'' Missy is looking directly at Petri as she says that, and she shifts in her seat, unsure of what the Headmistress is trying to say.

''What did you suggest?''

Missy smiles to herself. ''John. Basil. Theta. He asked why he would choose a letter for a name. You can guess what I suggested next.''

''You're the one who came up with...''

Another olive dies at the hands of Missy. ''As a joke. Don't blame me for the stupid decisions the man makes.''

Petri smiles and eats a bit more of her tomato. ''Alright, won't do.''

''Good.''

They stay silent for a moment. Missy removes the core of a few more olives. Petri finishes her tomato, grabs a small piece of cheese. She's the first one to break the silence.

''When did you become Headmistress?''

''You're a curious one, aren't you.'' Missy toys with one of the olive's cores, not looking directly at Petri. ''It'll be ten years in a month.'' Her mouth curves into a small smile. ''And still, it feels like it's been only a few weeks.''

''Ten years is a lot,'' Petri says, because she doesn't know what else to say. And also because, for some reason, it wasn't the answer she was expecting.

''It is, isn't it. I like to think I did a good job with my time here, even if not everyone will agree.''

Petri thinks back to Aldo looking nervously around him before mentioning Missy. ''Why?''

Missy shrugs. ''You can't always be liked by everyone. I just do my job, and sometimes people think I could do it better, or differently. Not that I care. It would be exhausting if I had to be liked by everyone, all the time, don't you think?''

''Y- yeah, I guess,'' Petri says. ''So you knew Salvatore well?''

''I knew him as much as I know everyone else.''

''Right.” Petri fidgets awkwardly with the cuffs of her coat. “Terrible accident.''

''Frightful, really,'' Missy agrees, ''but bound to happen at some point.''

“Bound to?'' Petri repeats.

''He was old, and we kept telling him he should be careful, but he wouldn't hear anything. He said that as the oldest member he should be allowed to do whatever he wanted. I did my best and tried to warn him, but sometimes people just don't want to be helped.''

''The oldest?''

''Yes, the oldest. Are you just going to repeat everything I said or are you able to come up with words on your own?''

Petri shrinks back in her seat. ''I didn't know, that's all. O didn't say anything about it.''

''O doesn't know everything,'' Missy says with disdain. ''I appointed him as the convent's doctor because it seemed like he would fit the role well. But now,'' and she raises her eyes, meets Petri's, ''I'm wondering. Maybe I was wrong.''

And Petri thinks about protesting, but Missy pops one of the cores into her mouth and the sound it makes when her teeth close on it doesn't leave room for anything else.

She watches as Missy swallows and gets up, brushing invisible dust from her skirts. ''I think we said everything we had to say to each other,'' she says, and Petri sees her knife disappear in the folds of her clothes. ''I expect to see you for lunch.''

She disappears through the door and Petri is left alone to munch on her (frankly delicious) bacon in front of a stack of mauled olives.

  
  


**** 

''You're heavier than you look,'' is the first thing O says to her when she runs into him near what she assumes is the diner hall, and she lets out a _Ow_ , followed by a _Is that how you say good morning now?_ which makes O... not laugh, per se, but his lips pull back and he looks generally happier than a few seconds before and Petri doesn't find that cute. 

''Just met the Head Mistress,'' she says instead of anything stupid like _Do I really droll in my sleep?_ , and O pulls a face. 

''Interesting one, right?'' 

''That's one word for it, sure.'' O has started walking so Petri just follows him. ''She said some things about not needing any more 'chaos''', and she mimes the brackets around the word, ''in the convent. Seemed a bit aggressive to me.'' 

O snorts. 

''Darling, wishing for some peace and quiet is not a direct attack against you, unless you are chaos incarnated. Which, actually, wouldn't surprise me that much.'' 

''You know what, I'm taking that as a compliment.'' O bows slightly, as if he were a gracious loser accepting that she just won that point, which Petri knows for a fact he isn't, and she tries not to dwell on the pet name. Or rather, dwells on it, so to ponder if using one in return could win her the upper hand. 

''But it was the tone she used when saying that,'' Petri whines, dejected. ''It was really mean!''

''I wouldn't be astonished by that, if I were you. I, too, would use a mean tone after being subjected to you for an entire breakfast.''

Petri frowns and fights back the urge to cross her arms over her chest, like a pouting child. ''Then leave. I'm not particularly fond of your presence either.'' 

''Alas,'' O says in a drawn-out sigh, ''I'm afraid I'm not allowed to do that. I can't just let you run freely around causing havoc. As your doctor and guard, you are my responsibility.''

''Guard?'' 

''Yes,'' and there's a slight smile playing on O's lips. ''I'm now sure that you were a convicted criminal whom I managed to capture and was in the process of taking to the nearest jail when you knocked me out and tried to escape.'' 

And, really, it's too easy to retaliate with the multiple proofs that O was definitely the escaped convict in that situation, and to reply _Ghost hunting_ when he asks the program for the day. She knocks shoulders with him when he says they'll be lucky to find one after what he dubs ''last night’s disaster.'' 

''It was a rousing victory,'' Petri declares in return. ''Finding ghosts ranks second in the discovery scale, above finding the murderer.'' 

''Then what ranks first?''

''Finding biscuits,'' Petri intones, deadly serious, and O laughs, for real this time, and Petri bites back a smile. 

  
  


**** 

  
  


Turns out, they're not lucky, and no ghost deigns to show up that day.

It's not for lack of trying; they've methodically explored every nook and cranny of the convent, passing by friars who gave them confused looks, and a tired Aldo who Petri decided was in need of some food and practically frogmarched to the dining hall so he could take a bite of bread. When night falls, Missy herself comes to find them (Petri has no idea how she did it. They were in the cellar, hiding behind stacks of bottles and waiting for any weird light, when Missy just. Popped out of nowhere, with her too-perfect smile and her purple waistcoat that was just as disturbing to Petri as it had been in the morning for reasons she still couldn't pinpoint), and she tells them they're a community, and need to have dinner together. 

So they eat with everyone, and then go camping in the library for the night. 

Morning comes, and still no ghosts. 

The next day, and the day after, are still devoid of ghosts. It rains, for most of these, and Petri finds herself holed up in O's office, rummaging through his jars and reading his books, and they start making concoctions, half-based on whatever recipes happen to tickle Petri's interest, and whatever ingredients they think could improve it. There are some explosions, and one scroll catches on fire, but it doesn't end in a bloodbath despite what Aldo's look when he came to check on them had suggested, so Petri thinks she earned the right to be satisfied with herself. (O doesn't, though. Not after doing nothing but sabotaging her ideas all day long. And no, she doesn't care if some of his actually worked). 

It rains again, and again. There isn't much to do in a convent in the off-time when one isn't trying to find a murderer, Petri finds out. She goes to the garden, talks with Aldo and Not-Aldo, picks some plants for O's shelves, and some she plans on using for a balm that would cure the burns on hers and O's hands, results of their (not quite failed) experiments. 

She tries to find Missy, too. The task is harder than expected. Missy seems to be coming and going in the convent as she pleases, without any clear nor discernable pattern, and sometimes Petri isn't sure anymore if she's looking for the ghosts or for Missy.

But she manages to find her (corner her, would be more appropriate, when she thinks about it) once, near the chapel, and she asks her about the legend of God's gift to the convent. Missy laughs, and it's as terrifying as Petri thought it would be, all teeth and a sound as sharp as a razor. She then tells her she's too big to believe in those kinds of fairy tales, and Petri is left with burning cheeks and a sudden doubt as to if ''fairytale'' was a word commonly used in this time period. 

  
  


**** 

  
  


To be fair, it's not like their day-to-day life completely lacks ghosts. It's just that they can't _approach_ them, and Petri finds that even more frustrating than the fruitless chase of the second day. 

At first, she would take O with her on night watches and walk through the convent, from one side of the building to the other, poking behind every door in case a ghost would be hiding there. It didn't really work. 

Instead, there were... things, moving, when she wasn't looking. Petri would look away, for the fraction of a second, and there would be the back of a head rounding the corner of the corridor, the tail end of a coat bathed in a blue light or the heel of a polished shoe disappearing the moment she looked at it. 

''Are they like, doing it on purpose?'' she asks one night, as strands of floppy ephemeral hair pass behind a window, vanishing as soon as she opens it. ''Are they trying to rile us up? Are they making fun of us?''

''That would imply that these ghosts can see us and have a sense of humor, and I don't know which one is worse,'' O answers dryly, from his spot against the wall. The git had started to bring books to their hunts and to read them instead of doing something nice, like actually helping. Petri very much hates him.

''How many of them do you think there are?'' 

O turns a page of his book, stifling a yawn. ''Who knows. Maybe just ask them next time.'' 

''I would if they would just stay in the same spot for more than a fraction of a second!'' O lets out a distracted ''hum'', and Petri huffs and brushes hair out of her face. 

At first she (and O too, even though the asshole wouldn't admit it) had thought there were only two ghosts – the children, with their unruly hair and silent laughs, running around the entirety of the convent, slipping between their fingers and under their blue light. But then, they'd stumbled upon a grown man, with dark clothes and a goatee, who had tripped next to O, and disappeared before he touched the floor; then there'd been this head covered in curly blonde hair that Petri had been so sure belonged to the blonde child of the library, but had turned out to be the one of a grown man with a multicolored coat that O still used to this day as proof that his own fashion sense wasn't so bad. There'd been more, after that, or so Petri thought. It was difficult to count them, when most of the time all she could catch was the top of a head or the end of a coat. 

(One thing she was sure of, was that these ghosts were all particularly fond of flappy coats and capes.) 

''D'you think they are friars? Like ghosts of those who died here?'' she wonders out loud, coming to lean next to O against the wall when it becomes clear the floppy-dark-haired ghost she'd been chasing for most of the evening wasn't coming back. ''Would be helpful, if we could find Silverio’s.'' 

''He was called Salvatore,'' O corrects, still in that distracted tone, eyes not leaving his book. ''And friars? Really? Have you seen their clothes?'' 

Petri shrugs. ''Maybe they changed clothes. I wouldn't want to be stuck in that tunic for all of eternity either.''

''Yeah right, because I'm sure the afterlife has numerous clothes shops.'' O's voice is dripping with sarcasm and Petri elbows him in the gut. She's doing all the work here, he has no rights to make fun of her. 

''Alright, what are your theories then? What d'you think they are?''

''The delusions of our tired and amnesiac brains, most probably,'' O answers, and yawns again. ''Can I go to sleep now? I feel like I haven't seen my bed in months.'' 

Petri frowns. 

''I'm not tired.'' 

''Yeah well,'' O closes his book with a snap, ''not everyone has your extraordinary constitution. Don't let me stop you from hunting ghosts all night long, though.'' 

The words sit wrong with Petri, bringing a wave of anxiety with them. ''But,'' she scrambles as O detaches himself from the wall and starts walking away, ''you and I, we're, you, we're the same... right?'' 

O stops in the middle of the corridor, and Petri feels her throat close as he turns to her, eyebrows raised. And, well, they've never really discussed it, not since the first day and the conversation in his office that felt like jumping around mines – but there'd been hints (big hints, if she dares say, hints like Sherlock Holmes related discussions, and heated arguments about mathematical knowledge that definitely wasn't discovered in this century, and, on one memorable day, a dab from O that knocked a bowl out of a shelf) – but still, there's something fragile, in this unspoken acknowledgment of who they are, that frightens her sometimes, because what if she was wrong and alone, again, and there are days when Petri looks at him and can't help but wonder how many heartbeats she would feel if she were to put her hand on his chest. 

''Different people have different constitutions,'' O says eventually, as if talking to a child, and Petri feels the usual frustrated anger that comes when talking to him rise up in her chest, next to her anxiety. But then he adds, ''Doesn't matter how many hearts they have,'' and – and her lips curve into a smile, almost against her will, and she wants to pump her fist in the air or maybe high-five O, but before she has the time to do anything he shakes his head with an exasperated – not fond, she tells herself – look and walks away. 

Gods, she hates him, she thinks; but she's still smiling. 

  
  


**** 

  
  


She conducts investigations, too. She would do it most of the time, if Missy hadn't made it clear that the death was ''classified'' and _We don't want any more disturbance, do we, dear?,_ in a sugary-sweet tone, blood-red marks on the rim of the glass she held in between elegantly manicured fingers. So they have to be discreet, sly about it, cornering friars without making it look like cornering and asking questions without making them look like questions. Or rather, she has to do all that, because O, the absolute coward, refuses to do any of the hard lifting himself and is content to hum along when she comes late into his office, sits on the wooden chest and narrates the day's interrogations. 

(It's weirdly cosy, Petri finds on some occasions, when she's talking, and the rain is tapping against the windows, and O is making soup in the cooking pot – that absolutely shouldn't be used for cooking proper food after everything they've put in it – and his sleeves ride up his arms as they flex – and she doesn't look.)

They don’t go to the wakes, or to the burial. O had said it would be the perfect place to ask some more questions about Salvatore, since everyone would be here and unable to go anywhere else, but Petri had been talking to Aldo lately, and the kid was just - so tired, always, and had said, cheeks still damp, _Stop, don’t, please_. And Petri isn’t really good at social clues, that much she’s figured, but she can understand when her presence isn’t wanted anymore. She gave Aldo one of the tinctures she’d made, nettle and lavender, told him to sleep, and didn’t go to the burial. 

Sometimes, she and O are dragged by the scruff of their neck in the dining hall, by a disgruntled Aldo, or a tired Ronaldo with ink stains all over his fingers. On one memorable evening, Missy herself knocks on the office door and comes in without waiting, to take their hands in hers and half-drag, half-push them towards the hall. 

''It's just such a shame,'' she says, as her fingernails rake across Petri's skin on the back of her hand, leaving red marks in their wake. ''Two new faces, adorably cute, and we are barely allowed to see them. We need you to eat more often with us, do you understand?''

And they nod, sharing a look above Missy's head, and O's eyelid twitches in such a funny way that Petri is unable to stifle her giggle. 

(''It just feels... weird,'' O had said later, when they were back in his office, Petri perusing through a book on the Templars, ''when she touches me. Sends shivers all up my spine.'' 

''Maybe it's love,'' Petri had drawled. 

She had been hit in the head with a pillow less than five seconds after.)

  
  


**** 

  
  


Their conversations usually go like this :

''No.'' 

''But-''

''I said no.'' 

''You're no fun.'' 

''How, look at that, I am now wounded beyond repair.''

''So-''

''Still no,'' 

because O is an awful person with no redeeming quality. They can also go like this : 

''Coward. You're such a coward. You're Mister Coward-O. C-O-ward.'' 

''Fine, I'll do it.''

''I'm sure you don't want to do it just because you're afraid to be proven wrong.'' 

''Do you actually listen when someone talks?'' 

''Most of the time it's not interesting, so no. Wait, did you just say 'fine'?'' 

And Petri somehow finds herself spending the majority of the day with him. 

They talk about who they were, too. Wonder about the nature of their relationship, back when they had all their memories and their real names. ''I bet you were an awful person,'' Petri tells him one day, as O had just poured rice all over (and under) her clothes. There are grains stuck in her hair and on her back. ''Someone who wore ties with vertical stripes. Maybe you were a heckler.'' 

''That,'' O wriggles a finger at her, a genuinely offended look on his face, ''is really mean. I won't stand being insulted like this.'' 

''Alright, not a heckler then. But definitely a tax evader,'' she concedes, and tries to gather the rice to throw some back at him. 

''Definitely,'' O grins. 

''And I was the one who had to stop you.''

O scoffs. ''You'd never be able to.''

''Would so!''

''Would not.''

(They speak of being sailors, set off to discover new lands, pirates or corsairs, exiled kings and lost heirs; Petri's almost stopped pretending at this point, and smiles everytime O smiles.)

**** 

  


When Petri passes a friar in the yard this morning, the man crosses himself and takes a wide berth to avoid her. 

Which is, you know. Fine. She gets it. She came in on the day one of their peers died in a really-not-suspicious fall, she doesn't have her memories, she spends half of her time hanging out with the other memory-less person and the other half running around the convent with no obvious goal to all these people who aren't in the ghost secret (or maybe they are in, and isn't that a fun idea?). And, after a few days of this dance – friars avoiding her, looks and whispers behind her back – she should be used to it. But, still. She and O have just finished a balm for soothing the abused muscles of the scribes' hands, and a tincture to help all the novices (and some masters) rest better at night. 

At least, there's no talk of witchcraft. Petri doesn't know if she has to thank Missy for that, but it's definitely a good thing. 

''It's not something we condone,'' Ronaldo says when she asks him about it at dinner. He has bags under his eyes, and his hands shake when he reaches for his goblet, but he stopped her in the garden this morning to thank her for the tincture, so Petri hopes he'll get better. 

''This convent – our rules, they are not exactly the usual rule, as you've probably noticed. That's why it's so important we protect it with everything we have.''

''And you don't get in trouble with that?'' Petri asks. She has noticed, indeed, the slight – and more obvious – discrepancies, between what she can remember of the Franciscan's rule and the way the friars here behave. The prayer's hours are not exactly the same, they have a room filled with swords – locked, but that wasn't a problem anymore – and their Head Master is a Headmistress. 

She just doesn't know what to make with that. 

Ronaldo lets out a soft chuckle, as if entertained by that idea. ''No, quite the opposite. We are rather precious to the Pope.'' 

''Hm. I see,'' Petri says, when she's not sure what there's to see. ''In what way?''

''I've seen you take books from the library,'' Ronaldo says instead of answering. ''Found something you liked?''

Petri bites her lip, and thinks. 

''You guys have a lot of books about the Templars. Didn't expect that.'' 

And Ronaldo... winks, at her. Well. Isn't that a surprise. ''Then you know all there is to know about this convent.'' Ronaldo pulls a face at that, that he tries to hide behind a spoonful of broth. ''Well, almost everything,'' he amends. 

''Wait,'' Petri says slowly, then snaps her fingers. ''Oh! Of course! The Templars?''

There are shushes around them, and a few dark looks that make Petri sink a little bit in her chair. Ronaldo rolls his eyes but it looks like he's fighting back a smile when he says, ''Yes, but without screaming it would be even better,'' and Petri nods, grinning a slightly apologetic smile.

She likes speaking to Ronaldo, Petri decides. He's clever, and always listens to what she has to say. They’ve talked quite a bit already, before today, Petri asking him relentless questions about the myths surrounding the convent’s history, the hierarchy of the friars and his own belief in ghosts. And now, maybe because he’s tired of the constant questioning, or simply because he figured she’s that close to understanding it all by herself, he's given her the key to the convent's history. 

''So you guys are... I didn't think they'd really survived?''

''We didn't survive,'' Ronaldo answers calmly. ''This convent was founded before Philip started hunting us, to protect the very thing he was trying to get.'' 

''I thought Philip wanted the Templars to disappear because he saw them – you – as heretics,'' Petri frowns. ''That's what all the books say.'' 

''It's more complicated than that,'' Ronaldo says with a weary sigh. ''If you look a bit deeper, you'll find people saying that it's also the power and the wealth of our order that excited Philip's greed, more than anything else. But then you'll wonder why he decided to kill us all when the bulk of it would then go to the Pope, and not to him; or why he didn't simply raise the taxes for those of us who were in France. No, what he wanted was something way more precious than gold.'' 

''The gift.'' 

Ronaldo nods, a small smile playing on his lips. ''I see you've done your research.'' 

''I thought it was a legend,'' Petri says, scrambling frantically at what she can remember O telling her that first night. ''A... a fairytale.'' 

''A fairytale would be high a price for so much blood spilled.'' Ronaldo sighs, again, stirring his broth aimlessly with his spoon. ''When he heard the first rumours that Philip knew about the Gift and wanted it for himself, our Master created this convent and tasked us with its guard. We live by the Templar's rule, and by our sacred duty.'' 

''But the Pope-''

''Knows about it, of course. He helped us hide from Philip, and still does today.'' 

''But isn't there a risk that one day he'll want it for himself?'' 

''Careful, young woman, you might be accused of heresy,'' Ronaldo says, but there's a twinkle in his eyes. ''But as I don't doubt that your intentions are devoid of any malignity, I'll take this as, say, an exercise of thinking, and tell you that if the Pope ever were to be plagued by such thoughts, he would have to find the Keeper of the Gift and pry the secret from them, which I doubt he'd be capable of.'' 

''Why?''

''Because we'd all rather die than betray it,'' Ronaldo says simply, and drinks the last of his broth while Petri thinks very hard and very fast about everything she just learnt.   
  


**** 

  
  


There are clothes in O's chest, Petri discovers, when he finally unlocks that lock. He only does it because she has finally understood how the metallic stick works, or at least some of the things it can do, and can now point it at doors and they will just. Open. 

(The first time it happens, she screams with joy, and the next minute three friars are with her, cautiously asking if she's alright. 

She's never been more alright in her remembered-life.)

O doesn't know about the stick, but he knows she can now enter his office even when it's locked and takes matters in his own hands before she can do it. 

''You had the worst fashion taste,'' she tells him, her face scrunched up in displeasure at the frankly hideous purple coat she's holding, and O says nothing but looks pointedly at her braces, braces that she likes, and refused to give up, along with the rest of her clothing, when some friar (a scribe, with a name full of ''R'' and T'') brought her the order-appropriate tunic and sandals. She put on the sandals, because her boots were too loud on the stone floors (and not because Missy looked at them pointedly when talking about proper standing. On the opposite, she kept them one day longer than she had intended because of that). But she refused, and still refuses, to part with the rest of her clothes. 

(The tunics don't even have pockets!)

When she's finished ruffling through all the clothes O wore on the day he came to the convent, and through the trinkets O found in the pockets (there isn't much – a kind of rectangular box that doesn't open, with buttons on the top; a stick of eyeliner, which explains the eyelashes; a golden broach; a ring), she decides to try on the coat. (Doesn't think of the ring).

It doesn't fit her, it's too large on the shoulders, but she keeps it on for the rest of the evening nonetheless. O steals hers in retaliation and they burn a new cooking pot while trying to prevent the other one to stain their coat. 

  
  


**** 

  
  


The chapel has an organ, and twice a day someone plays it. Petri likes to stand near a window and listen to it. She closes her eyes and sees the keys behind her eyelids, moves her fingers in rhythm with the piece and knows that she could play it better than anyone else. 

One day, the piece starts differently; it's earlier, for once, and Petri is trying to ask as inconspicuously as possible Tatiana, the chef's aide, what she was doing on the day Salvatore died. O isn't with her; hasn't been for some days already, absent from his office when she goes to find him, almost impossible to find in the convent's corridor. It also means that Petri hasn't been able to tell him about what Ronaldo said, but as the days pass, she doesn't know if she still wants to. 

(She does, and it's not because she misses the hours spent in his office, arguing and laughing.)

Tatiana's in the middle of a story involving trips to the nearest town and a depleted stock of tomatoes when the first keys vibrate in the air and Petri stops listening to her entirely.

It's a new piece, something Petri hasn't heard since she came in, and it starts out slowly, the keys low and threatening. It makes Petri think of a wolf closing in, circling its prey, quiet and deadly. Then it explodes – a flourish of keys, from all over the keyboard, pressed with force and intent, but with an almost chirurgical precision – and for the first time, Petri thinks she wouldn't be able to play it better. It's sharp, and cutting, and reaches heights that would be the coda in any other piece, but aren't here – it builds and builds, and Petri excuses herself to Tatiana because she has to be near the chapel when it finally reaches its end, somewhere she can see the player. 

She walks fast, following the music, trying to think of who it could be that plays with such a cutting intensity, and doesn't see Aldo when she runs into him. 

''I'm fine, before you ask,'' Aldo sighs, and she gives him some semblance of a smile, and resumes walking towards the chapel – the song is coming to an end, she can sense it, the chords fading slowly, one after the other, to give way to the final one, and hold it until it disappears on its own. 

''You seem awfully hurried,'' Aldo comments, because apparently he's still here? Petri turns to him. 

''Just,'' she waves one hand, ''listening. Music.'' 

Aldo nods. ''Oh, yes. The Headmistress is a very good player indeed.'' 

Petri stops dead in her tracks. They are in front of the chapel now, the sun dancing off the stained glass windows, the music pouring out of the open doors. ''The Head-'' Of course, of course it's her, who else could it be, with her cutting smiles and piercing eyes – Petri can see her fingers, long and agile, running on the keys with their nails too long and too sharp, that somehow never catch on the cracks. ''Of course.''

''She hasn't played in a while,'' Aldo comments. ''But she's still a better player than most of us.'' 

''Than all of you,'' Petri corrects, because it's the truth – and Aldo shrugs, accepting it. 

''I wonder if we'll hear O play. I heard the Headmistress has been trying to teach him some solfege.''

That catches Petri's attention, who was still stuck on trying to visualize Missy's play. ''O?'' And she might be watching Aldo a bit too intensely, because the boy folds in on himself a little. 

''Yes he,'' Aldo runs a hand through his hair, ''I saw him? Go to the chapel with the Headmistress? And Paratello said he was with the Headmistress when he went in her office yesterday, and they were talking about solfege?'' 

He sounds incertain, but Petri has other thoughts in mind – thoughts that don't boil down only to ''that little prat'', but some of them certainly are composed entirely of insults towards him, and the worst part is that she doesn't even know why she's so angry at that. 

''I see,'' she says, instead of doing something stupid like barge in and, she doesn't know, maybe steal the organ from underneath their hands. Or at least try to. The thing's huge. ''And do you have any idea why Missy decided to do that? I thought she wasn't overly fond of any sort of company.'' 

And it's true; in the days Petri has spent in the convent, she very rarely saw Missy accompanied by someone, and never for reasons other than administration-related talk. She tried to invite herself in her office once, perched on her desk and started asking questions about the best time for picking berries and if Missy was in the library on the day of the murder, but had been quickly chased away and the next time she tried to come in, she found a locked door and an empty office. 

''Well, she's always seemed pretty fond of O,'' Aldo says, picking at his tunic and avoiding Petri's eyes. ''She's the one who found him in the first place, and people say she even suggested his name.'' 

“I know,’’ Petri says. Bites. Snarls. Whatever. 

Aldo bites his lips. ''It’s just… he spent a lot of time with her, you know, before you, before we found you. And then they... well, he started spending more time with you and she... I went to see her, with Paratello, to tell her about you, and she didn't say anything? Was very brusque, sent us away quickly after telling us to take care of you, and then we practically didn't see her for the next week. So O stopped seeing her too, I suppose.''

''So they are just going back to how they were before I came in,'' Petri murmurs, and doesn't know what to think. O never told her any of that, never discussed Missy with her other than for a few dismissive words, scoffing when she suggested she could be the murderer. 

Petri hadn't understood the scoffing back then; now she thinks she does. 

Missy – or maybe it's O, but somehow Petri doubts it – has moved to another piece. A lighter one, where keys fall like raindrops, in a quick and neverending cascade. It takes skill, and years of training to achieve this precision, Petri knows. Missy has it all. 

What she doesn't know is the name of the pieces she plays. 

''What's she playing?'' 

It comes out harsher than intended. Aldo winces. She doesn't really feel sorry, but does feel guilty; but Aldo answers before she can apologize. 

''I don't know. I never recognize any of her repertoire. I can ask Brother Juliani, if you want.'' 

Petri guesses that Brother Juliani might be the organist. But for some reason, she doesn't think that anyone will know what Missy plays. 

''It's fine.'' They stand a moment, in silence, as the keys keep pouring out of the chapel and into the air, and Petri tries to understand why she's so convinced that Brother Juliani won't recognize it. 

''When did she become the Headmistress?'' she asks. And she knows the answer already, but for some reason has to ask it again, as if the answer would, could, change-

''Ten years ago,'' Aldo answers. ''Before I entered the order.'' 

''Funny that. Wouldn't have betted on her being here for more than a year.'' It’s false, and true at the same time.

It's the way Missy moves around, Petri thinks. Like she owns the place, but doesn't belong in it. The friars bow and part in front of her, listen to her, let her sit at the head of the table for meals, but it doesn't feel natural. 

Sometimes, Petri thinks they look at Missy like they look at her and O. 

''She's taken good care of the convent,'' Aldo is saying, ''never let us down. She's good for us.'' Petri doesn't know why he says all that, she didn't ask for it, but all those praises for Missy feed the anger simmering in her chest. It also means that she doesn't see the faraway look in Aldo's eyes as he goes on length about all the good Missy brought to the convent. 

The music stops. So does Aldo. 

Silence hangs out in the air for a full ten seconds. 

''I'm going in,'' Petri decides. 

''What?'' Aldo says. 

She's already halfway to the door. Aldo probably turns and walks away; she doesn't know and doesn't really care. Inside the chapel, Missy is sitting at the organ, her hands on the keys, and O is standing near, leaning towards her, talking quietly. 

It makes something ugly rear in her chest, to see them like that. ( _Like what?_ asks a little voice in her brains. She ignores it).

''Hi,'' she says, loudly, and they don't jump, because they are not the kind of people who jump, but they turn to her, Missy with a small smile playing on her too-red lips, O with his eyebrows pinched together. ''Heard the music. Total banger. Loved it. What was it again? Would love to be able to play it. D'you have a partition?'' 

''What are you doing here?'' O says, which is rude, really, because she hadn't been talking to him and he isn't even answering any of her questions. 

''Like I said, heard the music, loved it, would love to hear it again and maybe play it, who knows.'' She smiles at O, with a lot of teeth, and his frowning deepens. He shouldn't do that. It's going to leave permanent wrinkles on his forehead if he keeps at it.

''What are _you_ doing here?'' Petri asks, and in the corner of her eyes she sees Missy roll her eyes. Which is surprising, to say the least. Eyeroll wasn't a gesture she'd thought to associate with Missy. 

''Oh you know,'' O smiles, and it's full of teeth too – no originality here – ''I'm sort of a lover of the arts myself.'' 

Petri shoots back, without any clear thinking or defining idea, ''Really? Didn't think you were able to love something else than yourself.''

O's eyes darken. Well. It did sound better in her head. 

''And,'' Missy says, drawing out the ''a'', and both of their heads snap back at her, as if O had also forgotten that she was here – not that Petri had forgotten about it, one couldn't really forget when Missy was in the same room, but it was more like she had faded into the background, vanishing behind the white-hot anger piercing through every word Petri wanted to launch at O. ''I think this is where I should leave. But I might stay.'' Missy smiles, and it's full of teeth thrice, but she wins the palm of the best teeth-filled smile, ''I do like a lovers quarrel.'' 

''It's not,'' Petri stutters, at the same time O stammers ''What are you talking about,'' and they definitely don't look at each other because that would be too much a cliché for any of them to downgrade themselves to. 

Missy yawns.

''Not lovers, reddening cheeks, glances behind backs, yadda yadda. Spare me the dance, lovelies. I've been there more often than you could imagine.'' 

''You were?'' Petri asks, both because she can't actually remember if Templar's Master are allowed relationships and because she's happy to grab at every morsel that isn't the nature of hers and O's relationship – and lovers, really? They've never acted like – she never thought that – Missy coughs pointedly into her hand and Petri snaps out of her thoughts. 

''You're insulting me, dear,'' Missy says, and Petri blushes, for entirely different reasons. 

''I didn't mean,'' she tries to say, but Missy is looking at her, and her eyes are very blue, unsettlingly so. ''You're very,'' the corner of a lipstick-smeared lip pulls up over a white canine, and all thoughts come to an end in Petri's head. ''You're very pretty,'' she ends miserably. 

O doubles over with laughter. 

''Thank you dear,'' Missy says. At least she seems amused, which is better than pissed off, but definitely not what could be called _great_. ''Now please resume your row with our good Doctor. I am very much looking forward to witnessing it.'' 

There's something weird with the way Missy says ''doctor'', like she's giving it a capital letter, but not in an honorific fashion – more like she's making fun of it, finding it funny for reasons that are out of Petri's reach, but still feel like it's some sort of inside joke she's sharing with her.

And O, too. 

Since the guy's still here. 

What a shame. 

''There wasn't any row about to happen,'' the prat is actually saying, all smoothness and lies. Not that there was a row about to happen. Petri isn’t doing rows. Especially not with O. She’s so not doing rows that she smiles at him like they're best friends and he hung the moon in the sky. (Which he didn't, just to be clear). 

''No row at all,'' she confirms. ''Just passing by to say that I love the music, that's all.''

''Well, now I'm disappointed.'' Missy sighs, and stands up from her seat, smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt. ''Life here is so boring, it would have made for a good distraction. I'll have to find something else now.'' They watch as she walks down the aisle, brushing past Petri in a flourish of curls and perfume, and stops at the door to wink at them. ''Do call me when you're having one, dears.'' 

''There won't be any,'' O assures her, and she jerks her head back and laughs. 

''Oh, O. You two have been having one since you got here,'' Missy cackles, and exits the chapel, and.

That is. Um.

Certainly one thing to say, that won't keep Petri up at night (not that she needs sleep that much). 

''So,'' Petri says, instead of dwelling on this, ''Aldo told me you and Missy are very close.'' 

O is watching her, with eyes even bigger than usual, hair falling on his face. There's an incredulous smile pulling on his lips when he says, ''Are you actually jealous?''

''What?'' Petri swats at his arm, and he huffs, like he does when he pretends to be annoyed but isn't really. ''Why would I be jealous? There's nothing to be jealous of!''

''You tell me,'' O says. ''I'm not the one who said I wasn't able to, and I quote, 'love something else than myself.' Whatever that means.''

''Oh, shut up.'' Petri groans. ''It means you're a narcissistic, self-entitled prat and that I can't stand you.'' 

''Well, I can't stand you either,'' O offers graciously. ''But I don't want to stand in the way of your blooming romance with the Headmistress herself. Look at you climbing up the ranks!''

And Petri doesn't blush, but she doesn't _not_ blush either, and she says, ''Well, look who's jealous now,'' which makes O laugh and she thinks _I did that_ – which is not a thought she wishes to unpack but also, it's. 

It's nice. 

She looks at the curve of O's smile and doesn't think about framing it with her hands. 

**** 

  
  


Ghosts do talk, Petri finds out that night. 

But not in a helpful way. 

She's out with O, not because they have _made up_ , or _talked_ , or anything – there wasn't anything to make up for, right? - but because she had mentioned talking with Ronaldo, and he has said something in the lines of _Maybe this gift or whatever is what's causing the ghosts to show up_ , and _Wouldn't it be fun to find i_ t, and since they had scoured the convent right and left as well as south and north, Petri had decided that they would maybe have more luck in the woods surrounding it. 

''I hate it here,'' O keeps mumbling, and Petri keeps ignoring him. It's funny to see him get irritated and try harder to get a reaction out of her. How the tables turn. 

''Where do you think it would be? I'm thinking trunk-cranny, or maybe cave guarded by a talking bear.''

''You read too much. It's obviously in some sort of underground room with crystals in the walls and a trapped pedestal in the center.''

''And you watch too much Indiana Jones,'' Petri shoots back. ''Now,'' she tilts her head, ''do you hear that?'' 

''Hear what?'' 

''The... thing,'' Petri says, unhelpfully. O stares at her. She stares back. 

She doesn't understand why he isn't reacting.

''The...,'' it's not a song, not really, but it is, a sort of insistent and melodious humming at the back of her head, faint but here, thrumming with a renewed vigor since she noticed it. ''You can't hear it?'' 

''Not hearing anything, love. Your voice could cover a bear's roar.'' 

''And your complaints would have made the bear run away a long time ago. This way,'' she says. 

O sighs but follows her. 

Petri tries to follow the humming. To take steps towards it, where she thinks it'll become louder. It's hard, when you're the only one who can hear it, and your partner is constantly mumbling about how you're turning crazy. Talk about a vote of confidence. 

When the following-the-music turns into following-the-light, Petri turns to O with the most shit-eating grin she can muster, because she _earned_ it.

O groans in pain, and says ''Shut up,'' before she has the chance to say anything, and sets off towards the rays of ghastly blue light emanating from between the trees. 

The figures standing under the trees, right by the edge of the cliff, aren't children. They are two grown men, and Petri thinks wildly about the possibility that they are the children from the library, but years later, when they're all grown up and bending under the weight of thousands of responsibilities. But they look nothing like the children. Their hair is white, and they both have beards – a goatee, for one, a small but wilder one for the other. Fatigue is etched onto every line of their faces. 

They look immensely sad.

At her side, something warm brushes her hand. Petri doesn't turn, but hooks her little finger into O's. 

He slides his hand inside hers and shivers – squeezes – when one of the ghosts – if they're ghosts, even, Petri still doesn't know if she believes in them – opens his mouth and speaks. 

''You know what you have to do.'' 

It's weird, and distorted, like Petri is hearing it from the other side of a tunnel, where it bounced off the walls until it was nothing but a twisted-up echo of what it originally was. But she can make out the words, and so can O if the _fuck_ he quietly lets out is anything to go by. 

''I don't have to do anything.'' 

Their clothes are torned up. Dirty. Smeared with dark stains that could be anything, from oil to blood. There's a streak of grease, or maybe blood, down the cheek of the one of the right. They look like warriors, Petri finds, and the thought makes her shiver. 

''If you don't, no one else will.'' 

''Maybe because no one should ever do that.''

''You know it's not right. Someone has to.'' 

There's a plea in the men's voices – each one pleading to the other, and Petri doesn't quite get what they're arguing about – if arguing is the right term. The one on the right, with the bushy moustache and the big tired eyes seems – sounds, if Petri can trust the echo they're receiving – to be bordering on the edge of despair. Bordering only, because it's as if he's too tired to even let himself fall over it, doesn't have the energy to feel anything, even if it's despair. 

''Then why don't you do it yourself?'' 

The one with a goatee smiles – a humorless smile, that speaks more of cruel irony than joy – and he looks tired too. Petri is almost glad they don't have anything to do with the children – probably don't. It'd be even worse if she'd had to link those two visions together. 

''You can't keep pushing death over to me, Doctor. You have to take your responsibilities too.'' 

''Don't call me that.''

''It's about saving the universe, _Doctor._ When has that not been your responsibility?''

''Don't call me that,'' the one on the right repeats, and Petri sees his fists clench – as if in anger, as if he could maybe still feel something other than tiredness. 

''I've been called. For the front lines. Again.'' 

It's still the one with a goatee speaking, and the corners of his eyes are pulled down by heavy lines, and the chest of the other one (the Doctor?) heaves. 

They look tired, but also sad. 

''We won't stand long, you know that. I'll have to go. And I'll probably die too.''

''You'll die if I do it.'' 

It's – the way the Doctor says it, the softness in his eyes, the gentle curve of the other man's smile when he hears it, it makes something clench, in Petri's chest, and her fingers tighten around O's hand. 

Her cheeks are damp. 

''That's my own problem to deal with.'' 

''Don't go.'' 

''You know what you have to do,'' the man with the goatee repeats, deaf to the Doctor's whispered plea. 

The Doctor sighs, and closes his eyes. He looks old. He looks fragile. He looks to the man with the goatee and asks, ''Are you asking me to?'' 

''This is what I want.'' The man smiles, and it's sharp but there's something tender in it too, and the Doctor seems to bathe in it, his eyes drinking in the sight of his counterpart, as his body starts fraying at the edges, disappearing into the night. ''Please Doctor,'' the man says, and his voice is even more distant now, fading by the second, along with his face, ''save us.''

Then they are gone – and the last words come to Petri and O, carried by the wind. ''Save me.'' 

''Well,'' O says, after a while – where they stood in silence, watching the moon glinting off the surface of the sea, listening to birds cry and leaves rustle – and Petri turns to him and a ray of moonlight catches on a pearl of water attached to his eyelashes, on the glistening trail that goes down his cheek to the edge of his lips. Petri watches as they move. ''That was unexpected.'' 

Petri nods. She doesn't trust her voice yet. She has no idea what it is, that they have just witnessed, what those two men were talking about, but it felt both wrong, like they were stepping in on an intimate scene they weren't supposed to be private to, and right, like whatever just happened was meant for them to remember and keep in their chests behind their hearts. In her head, the humming is still calling to her, but it's slower, and comforting.

''Wha' d'ya think they were talking about?'' she asks, her voice rough. 

O shrugs. The movement ripples down his right arm, and Petri is made acutely aware of all the places they are touching right now – their arms pressed together, still holding hands – hands that are getting hot and clammy, Petri realizes, but she doesn't remove hers. It's the most they've ever touched.

''Probably the laundry,'' O says, and it's so unexpected that it rips a startled laugh out of Petri, and O laughs at his joke too, both of them choking a little bit on it, until tears spill down their eyes again and Petri has to hide her face in O's shoulder. 

O goes entirely still. 

''You,'' Petri whispers, and she yawns – she's getting tired, really tired, for the first time since she came to the convent, and O's scent is surrounding her, something a distant part of her brains tells her she shouldn't be finding calming, but she does, and she smiles here, in the privacy of O's neck, skin so close she's sure O can feel her every breath.

It probably infuriates him. 

She hopes it does. 

''You have the worst sense of humour ever,'' she says. 

O hums and – and his hand is on her shoulder, then in her hair, fingers slipping between strands, a thumb brushing at the skin above her head. 

She yawns, again. Her nose brushes at his neck. She can almost feel his pulse. In her hair, his hand is soothing, and warm. 

His neck must be warm, too. 

Petri smiles and brushes her lips against it.

It's indeed warm. 

The hand in her hair stops moving. 

Then it's replaced by a mouth – a soft kiss, at the top of her head, and she hums contentedly, and O laughs, a soft laugh, that vibrates in his throat and through her head. ''You're impossible,'' he says, defeated, but there's a smile in his voice, and Petri thinks about kissing his neck again, then his jaw, and about sneaking an arm around his waist to bring him closer. 

There's nothing stopping her, so she does just that.

It feels just as nice as expected.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyy finally back with the last chapter ! this fic was such a good time to write (and to procrastinate writing) (and editing) (sorry for how late this chapter came this last couple of weeks was crazy) and im really happy for how it turned out. thank yall for reading and commenting and kudoing, and i hope you'll enjoy this last chapter with even more Master than ever!

Petri finds Missy in the cloister, sitting on the sole stone bench at the edge of the first array of plants, sipping delicately on an ornate teacup.

''Summer is coming to an end,'' Missy says without even turning to her. Petri was certain she didn't make any noise. ''I shall be leaving soon.''

''To where?''

Missy moves, in a shuffling of fabric and her shoes slide along across the ground – she's the only one who doesn't wear sandals, and Petri notices that just now, when the heels of her boots criss through the gravel. She pats the spot next to her.

''Sit.''

Petri sits.

Missy isn't looking at her. Her eyes are following the rise and fall of the water in the fountain that stands in the center of the cloister, and she sits still, more than Petri has ever seen her do.

''Do you like it here?''

It's fair to say Petri wasn't expecting that sort of question.

''Why are you asking?''

Missy sighs and waves a hand around. ''Head Mistress, have to make sure everyone's happy, improve thingies if not, and all that jazz. So, are you?''

Petri tugs on her ear.

''It's nice,'' she offers.

''Oh grand.'' Missy bites out the word like it's an insult, tongue catching on the ''g'' and making it click and pop out. ''Just marvelous. It's  _ nice _ . People are singing and the sun is shining and there are rainbows in the sky. What am I supposed to do with that, tell me?''

Petri taps a finger against her lips, worrying them, thinking.

(She thinks about the warmth of O's arms, the bending of his lips below hers, the gentle press of his forehead against her temple as she held him)

(She thinks about her name leaving his lips like a prayer, and how wrong it had felt)

''I miss my memories,'' she says eventually. Missy's constant tapping of her heels on the gravel stops. ''I miss not knowing my name.''

''How can you miss something you don't remember having?'' Missy asks. And her voice tilts curiously, taking on a tone that sets Petri's alarms off, but she can't quite pinpoint why.

It happens a lot with Missy, it seems.

''I do,'' she answers simply.

''So if you were given the chance to get those memories back, you would take it?''

Petri doesn't even have to think about it.

''Yes.''

And it – it makes Missy sigh, in a way that Petri would call defeated, if it were a word that she'd think to associate with the woman. She closes her eyes, for the briefest of a second, before fixing them on the fountain, again.

''Let's say,'' Missy starts, and she puts the teacup on the bench, between them, and folds her hands on her legs. ''You live a perfectly happy life. You have friends, you have food and a bed in a lovely place, people you love, or whatever a happy life entails for you.''

''Ok,'' Petri says. There's a crease between Missy's eyebrows and she's taken with the – absurd – wish to soothe it with her thumb.

She puts her hands under her thighs, in case they decide to have a life of their own.

''Then let's say someone comes in, in this perfect little life you're having, and tells you you could lose it all. That'd be rude, wouldn't it?''

''Yes,'' Petri says. She isn't sure where Missy is going.

''But,'' Missy says, and she still isn't looking at Petri, the focus of her blue eyes entirely on the bird drinking in the fountain. ''In exchange you could learn a secret. The biggest secret of them all. It would change your life, but you don't know how. You just know you would lose the little perfect one you built. What would you do?''

Petri licks her lips, nervous. Missy's hands are in her lap and she is wrapping a loose thread from her skirt around a nail, slowly unraveling the edge of the cloth.

''I feel like you tried to make a metaphor about my situation,'' Petri says eventually, ''but I don't think it's very accurate.''

The thread snaps.

''It is,'' Missy says. ''But I'm not expecting you to understand why.'' She picks the thread between two fingers and tosses it on the ground. ''Or maybe it isn't, and I just made a metaphor for my own situation. Or my future one. Who's to say.''

''You said you were going to leave,'' Petri says, because she feels wrongfooted in this conversation, doesn't quite understand what Missy is trying to say, and she doesn't like that. ''Why?''

''As some would say,'' Missy says, ''my job here is almost done.''

''Which job?''

Missy smiles. It's a small, terrifying smile. ''Clever girl,'' she says. ''It must be so frustrating for you to be here.''

''Not frustrating, exactly. Lots of things to do around here.''

''Oh yes.'' Missy picks at a nail. ''O told me all about your little ghost hunt. I don't think you had any luck.''

O told her. Sure. Petri bites her lip. ''I don't think they are ghosts,'' she says, and for the first time since the beginning of the conversation Missy looks at her.

''Really?'' she asks, and her eyes are too blue, a washed-out blue, like the light that surrounds the ghosts, and was Petri complaining when she wasn't the focus of those eyes? She's sure she wasn't. She would very much like not to be right now. ''What do you think they are then?''

''I don't know.'' Missy raises an eyebrow. ''Does that mean you believe it? Did you see them?''

''I don't know,'' Missy parrots, and winks at Petri. ''I wouldn't want to spoil your fun. Especially if it's the only thing keeping you around here.''

''I didn't say it was,'' Petri protests, because it isn't. Missy rolls her eyes.

''Right. You think there's a murderer in those walls.''

Petri's fists clench at her sides.

''Did O tell you that too?''

''I don't need O to tell me everything. I'm a perfectly capable woman. And you're not half as subtle as you think you are with all your questions.''

Petri's cheeks burn. ''Right,'' she huffs. ''And what are you going to do about it?''

Missy shrugs. It's delicate, like all her movements, and careless at the same time. Not for the first time, Petri wonders how much of it is Missy and how much is an act.

Then, maybe all of Missy is an act.

''Nothing,'' she answers, and turns a sharp smile to Petri. ''It's your investigation, after all. As long as you don't disturb the convent's life, I won't stop you.''

Petri's throat closes. ''So you think it was a murder?''

''I think that an important member of our community died tragically before his time and that his memory is best respected when not constantly questioned.'' Missy's tone is sharp like her smile and Petri swallows around the knot in her throat. ''Is that clear?''

And Missy -- Missy is frightening, really. Friars move around the hallways to avoid her when she crosses their path, and she has a look in her eyes that tells of a hunter perpetually chasing their prey. But Petri found, in the few days since she was first awake, that she isn’t one to be frightened easily. There’s a rush of blood in her veins when she’s faced with a threat and the urge to bare her teeth and growl louder than whatever thinks it can best her.

Petri tilts her head back, tries not to squint against the rays of sunshine and the blue of the sky, and smiles too. “Not really, no,’’ she says, and her smile grows bigger, uncovering her teeth, at the way Missy’s face closes. “What is clear, though, is that you know more than you say. I think you knew about these ghosts all along, and I think you know things about O and I that you refuse to tell us, and I don’t know how all of this is linked but I’ll find out. And then you’ll regret not telling me sooner, because I won’t have any mercy if you’re the one who took our memories,’’  _ if you’re the one who hurt me, who hurt O _ , she doesn’t say, but her look is harsh and her tone low and menacing. 

And Missy - 

Missy laughs, throwing her head back, with a high-pitched laugh, that she ends on a snap of her teeth, like she's biting on some invisible fruit. ''I certainly won't, darling. You're having so much fun, I would be a very bad girl if I spoiled that.'' She sits up and – her hand brushes against Petri's cheek, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, and it’s – Petri – doesn't like touches, has been shielding away from them since she woke up, only letting O get past her barriers, because O she can  _ trust _ , but here.

Here, she lets Missy brush the tip of her fingers across her cheekbones and leave, and doesn't feel the urge to rub at her face to make the phantom sensation disappear.

** **

''Missy did it.''

Even from where she is – half a dozen feet away from O – she can see all the lines of his back tense and his head shrink between his shoulders.

''Hello to you too, love.'' O turns from the plants he was gathering. He's smiling, but it seems forced. ''What brings you here in this delicious morning?''

''It's almost afternoon.'' Petri takes a few more steps towards him. He's holding stems and leaves in one hand, and a small knife in the other, that he slips in a pocket. ''And I told you. Missy did it.''

''Now,'' O says, ''what are your grounds on this?''

Petri holds up one finger. ''She's suspicious as heck.''

O sighs. ''I'm afraid this isn't the kind of accusation that will hold up in front of a jury.''

''Oh, because you're so well-versed in trials now?''

''It's not hard to be better versed in this than you, at least.'' O snaps. Petri flinches. ''Flinging accusations all around isn't really the way to do it.''

''Well at least I'm trying to do something.  _ You _ just sit here and wait for me to do all the work.''

There's a sneer sitting on O's face when he answers, ''I wouldn't want to take all the fun away from you, not when you seem to be enjoying yourself so much.''

( _ You're having so much fun, darling _ , Missy whispers in her ear.)

Petri takes a step towards O, so she's hovering right in front of him. ''This. Is. Not a game,'' she says. ''A man died. Maybe more than one, if these ghosts really are ghosts. I don't see how you can say this is  _ fun _ .''

''Because  _ fun,'' _ O throws back at her, ''is what you're having. And it's all right! It's better than having you sulking all day long and going all on over your head about your memories. But you don't have to bring me in it, or start accusing people of  _ murder.'' _

O knows where to hit so it hurts – and Petri takes a shaky breath, before snarling, ''But murder there has been, sorry to break it to you. And, you know what, it's fine, do whatever you want. Go back to your little plants and your pulled muscles. I don't need you to solve this.'' She takes a step back and turns away. ''See you.''

She doesn't even have the time to cross the yard before a hand closes around her wrist. ''Wait,'' O pleads, and he bites his lip when she stops, closes his eyes for the fraction of a second. ''Let's try to... talk it out, ok?'' he says, voice calm, but there's still that edge of pleading creeping into his tone. ''I heard people did that.''

Petri lets him stand here for a couple of seconds, before saying, ''Are we people now?''

The grip around her wrist loosens and a thumb strokes slowly across her wrist bone. O lets out a tentative smile. ''Sometimes they have good ideas. I was thinking we could borrow some of them.''

''Yeah?'' The lines around O's eyes loosen too, at the easiness of the word, and Petri takes the time to watch him – watch the hair falling on his forehead, the shadow of a stubble around his mouth, the taut lines of his neck as he leans towards her, as if his entire being was focused on this single thing, on putting as little distance between them as possible.

She swallows. She feels – tired, suddenly. Not the same kind of tired that she was last night – and it seems so far now, the deep content in her bones as she was swaying in O's arms, laughing silently and brushing kisses all over his face. Now, she feels like -

Like it's too much, and it'd be nice if the world could stop spinning so she could take a nap.

''Tell me why you trust Missy so much,'' she orders.

O takes a breath and stands straighter. His hand falls at his side. Petri finds she misses its warmth.

''You'll have to promise you won't get mad,'' he says slowly.

''I'm not making any promise.''

She holds O's gaze and he breaks first. ''Fine.'' He runs a hand through his hair, exhales through his nose. ''She's... I think she's like us.''

And –

_ Oh. _

_ Of course _ .

It all makes so much sense now – the dress, it feels off, because it is, because the cut and the colors are just a little bit off, and belong to a few decades in the future – the organ, the plays, no one will know them because they haven't been written yet – the accent...

''She speaks English sometimes,'' O says, and Petri realizes she's been saying it all out loud, but  _ of course _ .  _ English _ . ''I didn't pick it up the first times either.'' He huffs a laugh. ''I think she's Scottish.''

They've been speaking italian the whole time, Petri knows. Had known when O had slipped and said  _ Fuck _ , a good, proper, english  _ Fuck _ , on the third day after dropping a bowl and all of its contents on the ground. They talked about languages after that, tried to understand how many they knew, wondered why they wouldn’t remember their mothers but know how to swear in German. Since then, Petri had been watching herself more closely, careful not to slip up in front of the friars.

Missy, it seemed, was more careless.

''Does she have...''

''Her memories?'' O inhales. His nostrils flare a little. ''Yeah, I think so.''

''And does she,'' Petri swallows, think of all the times she's talked with Missy. Of the way Missy took her hand in hers, patted her on the cheek. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ''Does she know us?''

O is looking away. Averting his gaze. He speaks quietly, and Petri has to strain her ears to hear this. ''I think.''

It's like the wind has been knocked out of her guts.

Petri stumbles backwards, and it's like there's a burn, across her cheek, where Missy touched her earlier.  _ I think _ , says O, but what does that mean – she thinks of Missy greeting her on that morning, of Missy finding them wherever they are, of her questions –

_ Are you happy, here? _

''Then why,'' she says, stammers, ''why wouldn't she say anything?'' O shrugs. Petri – and her name  _ isn't  _ Petri, it's something else, something that would feel better in her brains, that wouldn't taste wrong whenever she says and thinks it – Petri digs the heel of her hands into her eyes, and wants to scream.

''Why would she lie,'' she rasps, ugly, ''why wouldn't she help?''

''She helped.'' O's voice is calm, and quiet. He's probably aiming for soothing. Too bad Petri's not in the mood to be soothed. ''She showed us around, protected us from rumours, watched over us.''

''She killed a man,'' Petri grits out. ''Because she wants that- that Gift, whatever it is,'' and it's so fucking obvious, she should have understood it sooner – makes even more sense now that she knows – ''She knows how to use knives, O,'' she has a small, ornated knife, that she carries around in the creases of her skirt, Petri can still see the sun glinting off it behind her eyelids, ''she's the only outsider, the only one who wouldn't be trusted with the secret, and she had to kill to have it.''

O laughs, and it's hollow, and frightened. ''Don't – don't say that, Petri, come on. You know it's not her. It's probably no one. That guy just slipped and died, it happens.''

''You believed me,'' Petri points a finger at him, accusing. ''You went with me, to the library, you saw the blood, you saw the stab wound. Why are you denying it now? Unless you were with her the whole time, you killed him together-''

O surges forward, grabs her shoulders, shaking his head. ''I didn't kill anyone, Petri, I swear,'' he says, urgently, and she. She doesn't know if she trusts him anymore.

''Then why are you saying this,'' she pleads, takes a step back. O doesn't follow her. ''Why are you refusing to solve all this?''

O breathes. ''Because,'' he says, and bites his lip until they become white, runs a hand through his hair, tugs. ''I'm afraid. I'm afraid you'll find something you're not meant to find and this, all of this,'' he makes a gesture with his hand that encompasses the garden, the convent, the distance between he and Petri, ''it'll all be gone.''

Petri whispers, ''I want my memories back.''

''I know,'' O whispers back. ''But I don't want to lose you.''

''Who said you were going to?''

He lifts one shoulder up. ''I don't want to take the risk.''

And she knows what he means. They've talked about it, too, when the night was dark and they were in his office, Petri sitting at the feet of the mattress, O laying on his back with one arm thrown over his eyes. ''Sometimes,'' he had said, ''I feel so light. Like I was born yesterday and I don't – I don't have to worry about anything, 'cause I didn't do anything yet. And it's so good but also... It frightens me. A bit.'' And Petri had nodded, even though he couldn't see her, and told him,  _ Me too _ , because she was afraid too – afraid of all these holes in her brains and of how they made everything look so easy and light. Like her memories had been a burden.

She has no idea what kind of burden it'd been, but she knows she can't spend the rest of her life avoiding it – there's this visceral need to  _ know _ , that keeps her awake at night, looking around the convent to find ghosts, a murderer, an answer to something.

''I need to know,'' she tells O, simply.

He sighs. His shoulders slump, and his hand falls from his hair. The silence stretches, an infinity of outcomes spreading in front of Petri, most of them terrifying - but she’ll do what she has to do, with or without him, and she knows that he knows that. 

“Well,” O says, eventually, ''I thought you'd say that.” 

He raises his eyes, meets hers, and smiles -- a little smile, a bit tentative, a bit sad, and Petri feels something in her chest surge with affection for this man. She has to smile too, to clamp back on the urge to kiss him, to tell him everything's going to be alright.

''So,'' O asks, ''where do you want to start?''

** **

  


Petri has only been in the forest once.

She tried to go, many times, in the past days. Somehow, there was always something or someone stopping her before she got past the walls. Aldo, appearing at her elbow to ask about a plant, or a tincture; O, coming up to talk; Missy, appearing out of nowhere and steering her towards the main building with a hand on her arm.

Now that she's back in it, that she can hear again the same humming that turns into something of an insistent calling at the back of her head, and that there is a blue light spilling from between the trees, Petri's starting to get why she wasn't allowed outside.

''Did you know about that?'' she asks O in a whisper, as they walk towards the trees to get a better view.

O shakes his head no, and Petri can't help a twinge of annoyance at that – does he not know like he didn't know Missy wasn't from Earth? Maybe O senses it, or just feels the need to fill up the silence between them. 

''I swear I didn't,'' he says. 

Petri bites the inside of her mouth, not quite knowing what to think.

The biting becomes worse when they reach the edge of the treeline and get a better look at the apparition.

There's a woman, surrounded by the light, sitting in the middle of the clearing, her chair atop a small stage. Like a statue meant to be worshipped, is the absurd thought that crosses Petri's head, before she can even take a proper look at the woman's face.

In front of her, a piano, as ghostly as the rest of her. Her hands are running across it, light and speedy, and the music comes – faint, distorted – to Petri's ears.

She knows it.

It's the same one Missy played the day before, on the organ.

And it's – Petri has to look once, then twice, not quite believing what her eyes are trying to tell her. Because the ghost has Missy's face, and Missy's posture, and Missy's hands, and Petri has to look away, and look at O. 

O doesn’t look back. His face is unreadable. Petri goes back to the apparition. 

She whispers, ''What do you think that means? Is she dead? Has she been a ghost this whole time?'', and he shakes his head, eyes not leaving Missy's figure. Petri's brain is going a hundred miles a second. She's never felt more awake.

''She can't be,'' he says, voice thin, like it's on the edge of breaking, and Petri considers putting a hand on his shoulder. ''I've seen her, just this morning. She was perfectly fine.''

''Something might've happened,'' Petri suggests, and at the dark look O sends her, she shrugs. ''If you have any other explanation, I'm all ears.''

''Well,'' O says, and this time his voice breaks on the last sound. He licks his lips, and points to something behind Petri with his chin. ''I don't have any, but she might have.''

When Petri turns to see Missy, standing on the other side of the clearing, the real Missy, without any other light than the sun's surrounding her, looking at her image playing the piano, she feels like she should be more surprised to find her here.

(She isn't; not really.)

Missy hasn't seen them, not yet. She's entirely focused on the apparition, immobile if not for her eyes following every movement of the woman's hands on the piano. Petri would like to know if Missy knew about the ghosts, has the answers for them, who they are and why one of them looks like her, but nothing in her posture – in her straight back, in the clench of her fingers around the handle of her umbrella – speaks to Petri.

They stay like this -- Petri and O, standing still and quiet, Missy looking at her double with a carefully blank face -- until another ghost appears. He doesn’t exactly materialize out of thin air; it looks rather like he passed an invisible door and is now in the same room as all of them, walking towards Missy’s image with tentative steps. 

His hair is grey and he has lines all over his face. He stops a few steps behind Missy, heads tilted to the side, eyes closed, and listens to the music. Missy - the ghost, the apparition, whatever - doesn’t react to it. Missy - the tangible, real one - moves for the first time since Petri noticed her. Petri sees her chest heaving, her eyes widening, and her gaze tears apart from the vision -- only to land directly on Petri and O, on the other side of the clearing. 

For a second, no one moves.

Then Missy speaks.

''What did you do?''

It's very unfair, Petri thinks. She's supposed to be the one asking that.

''What is this?'' O asks, the first to recover from the shock. ''Why,'' he gesticulates to the center of the clearing, where the apparitions are still playing softly and listening to the music, respectively, “how can you be a ghost?’’

''A ghost,'' Missy repeats, and she's sneering, but it lacks her usual bite. ''Still haven't found a better name for these?''

''Excuse us for doing our best with what we have,'' Petri snaps back immediately. ''Maybe it would have helped if you had given us clues. Like who we are, for instance.''

''You don't need to know that.'' Missy's tone is sharp like a razor. ''You don't want to.''

''You have no right to decide that for us.''

Missy's eyes dart to the center of the clearing, where the man is now leaning against the piano, absently drumming at a guitar that Petri didn't see appear. The woman – Missy – is still playing. But she looks more relaxed now, and Petri can see the ghost of a smile floating at the edges of her lips.

Missy’s sneer only grows at the vision.

''I have every right to decide that,'' she says. ''More than you could imagine.''

''Then humour us,'' Petri suggests, and she's smiling, but it's the smile that O told her made him want to crawl into a hole rather than face it. ''What rights do you have?''

Missy doesn’t answer immediately, but it doesn’t matter. Petri is angry. At the world, for making her lose her memories. At O, for not telling her everything he knew. At Missy, for all the deceiving and lying and probably murdering she did.

She's also tired, and sad, because she has memories now, of her time in the convent, and Missy and O are in most of them, and now she has to twist them all, to put them under the new light of everything she's discovering. She's not a fan of that. It doesn't help that O brushes a finger down her blanched knuckles, where her hands are balked into a fist, and slides his hand into hers. It doesn’t help either when Missy raises a hand to her face, shielding her eyes from them, before letting it fall back with a sigh.

''I hate that,'' she says, and Petri wholeheartedly agrees with the feeling, if not the person. ''How can you always do that?''

''Do what?'' O asks and Missy glares at him.

''Shush, you. Can't a woman have an internal crisis over a choice in peace?''

Petri's throat constricts, and she has trouble pushing the words out. ''What choice?''

''I have two options,'' Missy sighs. ''And they are both  _ good  _ options,'' and her face contorts around the word, like it physically hurts her to say it. ''Options that will do good. Never had that problem before. It's disgusting.''

''You could tell us what they are,'' Petri says, as nonchalant as she can. ''We can help. Maybe.''

''I heard we give good advice,'' O adds, and Petri squeezes his hand. He squeezes back.

Missy pulls a face.

''This is the worst,'' she says. ''I would leave this place and go kill a Pope if that wasn't one of the good options.''

O sounds as confused as Petri when he says, ''Killing a Pope would help us?''. Missy groans like their confusion is a curse she has to endure. She looks a lot like O when Petri barges into his office to announce that mixing marigold and ginger together would make a good tincture. (It didn’t).

''Me leaving would help,'' she says, and she's looking at the apparitions again – still playing, both leaning over the piano now, the guitar lying at the man's feet as he brushes his hands over the keys.

''You telling us what these are,'' Petri gestures to the apparitions, ''and why Salvatore was killed would help.''

''Would it,'' Missy mutters, and she's still looking at the ghosts. Sunrays filter through the leaves over their heads, and it must be a play of the light when Petri thinks something like longing crosses her eyes.

''Did you kill him?''

''If I said yes,'' Missy's focus snaps back to her, ''what would you do?''

A dozen answers immediately come to Petri, but O speaks before she has the chance to say any of them.  _ Telling O I said so _ , probably wasn't a good one anyway.

''Ask how you did it,'' O says. ''And why, of course,'' he adds after a beat.

Missy smiles, and it's weirdly proud. Of O. Like she wants to go over to him and pat him on the head.

''Not my best work, I'll admit,'' she says instead, and looks at her nails as Petri elbows O in the gut and mutters  _ I told you so _ . To his credit, O doesn't react.

“Does it have anything to do with the Gift legend?''

Missy sighs, again, and looks up at the sky.

''I hate it,'' she says, barely a whisper. Then she turns, and disappears into the wood.

Petri and O exchange one glance and run after her, leaving the duo and their music behind.

** **

''I have to say,'' Missy shoots over her shoulder, ''I really thought you would have figured it all out sooner.''

Petri looks at O, who looks back.

''I knew you were the killer from day one,'' Petri retorts. ''And I was that close to cracking the ghost thing.''

Missy laughs. ''No you didn't, love.''

''Not from the first day, but she did think you were the killer,'' O says. It's a half-hearted defense, if Petri ever saw one.

Ha. She knew the guy would be a sore loser.

Missy snorts derisively. ''Only because I let her know. And you weren't any close to 'cracking the ghost thing', dear''.

Petri can hear the quotation marks in her voice. She pulls a face at her back.

''No need to look at me like that,'' Missy says, without turning to her. O actually giggles.

Petri hates it there.

''You know you're not supposed to laugh at a murderer's joke,'' she tells him, and ducks under a low tree branch. O follows.

''I can if it's a good joke.''

''No you can't. Where are you taking us?''

Missy doesn't answer. They've been walking for almost ten minutes now, and the humming in the back of Petri's head is only growing stronger and stronger. She wonders if Missy can hear it too.

When Missy comes to a stop, in front of a wall – another one – covered in ivy, stones cracked by decades of sun and tempests, guarding nothing but the wild plants growing behind it, Petri is split between the bitter taste of betrayal and the foolish hope that Missy will somehow activate a secret mecanism that'll open some door behind which lies the key to this entire mystery, and not murder them.

''My money's on the murder,'' O whispers in her ear. Petri runs a thumb along the back of his hand. Apparently she's been holding it for the entire walk. Apparently it's something they do now.

In front of them, Missy's facing the wall with a supremely bored look. She raises a hand, and Petri tenses, ready to fight or run away if needed.

Missy presses a few stones in quick succession, and then wipes her hand on her skirt.

Under their feet, the ground rumbles, and the earth and dried leaves give way to a flight of stairs, descending into darkness.

''Tadaa,'' Missy says, in a blank voice.

Petri swallows. If she’s being honest with herself, it’s more out of excitement than fear. The hole opens dark and inviting below them, with only the first few steps visible under the sunlight. The wind rushed in it with a hiss as soon as it opened, and brought up the musty smell of a place that hasn’t seen the open air for far too long. There may be a manic grin on Petri’s face, one that isn’t mirrored by Missy nor by O. The latter seems even worried, with creases between his eyes and an anxious turn of his mouth. He’s still the first one to speak.

''Well,'' he sighs, and slides his hand out of Petri's grip to run it through his hair. ''Down the rabbit hole we go.''

''We should really try to keep the anachronisms on the low.'' At Petri's side, her hands are steady. The humming is now a song, beckoning her, talking of home and stars.

Missy goes first.

They follow.

** **

The descent is long. Longer than Petri expected. The stairs don't go straight downwards; they curve and turn and the walls turn with it, rough with dry earth and what Petri assumes is chalk. (She didn't have the time to lick them. Yet.) The light from the trap in the ground filters thinner and thinner as they walk down.

Missy doesn't talk. O does. After two minutes of listening to his running commentary of  _ This is such a bad idea _ ,  _ We're so gonna die _ ,  _ I hate the dark so much,  _ and others  _ Remind me why we thought this was a good idea, so I can get mad at you and never listen to you again _ , Petri considers pushing him down the stairs.

(Maybe he could even take Missy with him in his fall and then she'd have killed two birds with one stone.

Quite literally.)

But O has big doe eyes and a rare laugh that makes Petri smiles, and soft hands that tend to the friars' injuries, so Petri shoves her own hands in her pockets and keeps herself occupied with other things. Like questioning Missy.

''Why did you kill Salvatore?'' 

Missy makes a vague motion with her hand. ''The man wouldn't tell me how to activate the door. It was starting to get annoying.''

There's a sour taste at the back of Petri's mouth. ''So you didn't even kill him to get his secrets. You knew where to find it already.''

''I told you,'' Missy chirps – honest to god  _ chirps _ , with her high pitched voice and a casual spring in her steps as she hops down from one step to another, ''he was being annoying. And I hate annoying humans even more than fake knives. Also, I was bored.''

They're almost entirely in the dark now. Petri's eyes have adjusted to it, but she has trouble seeing the steps, and has to put a hand against the wall to steady herself. It also helps not focusing too much on Missy saying that she killed a man for  _ fun _ .

''But you know how to open the trap now,'' O points out. He's been eerily silent since they started talking, and Petri thinks about laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder. She doesn't do it; tells herself she doesn't want to startle him.

''I'm a competent girl. I can figure stuff out by myself.'' Missy then does something weird with her tongue, a series of clicks and ticks, and jumps from the step she was standing on.

She falls on her feet not even two feet below.

''Behold,'' she exclaims, and extends her arms, her umbrella in one hand, encompassing the whole of the obscurity stretching in front of her. ''The Treasure of the Templars!''

Her voice booms and bounces off invisible walls, dying in some far corners of the... cave? cavern? chamber they are in, and something buzzes – Petri's hand flies to her pocket, the one where her metal stick is, because it's the exact same sound, but it doesn't come from the object -- 

and all around the chamber, torches lit up, shooting grotesque, gigantic shadows dancing on the walls.

Petri's tongue sticks to her palate.

''Wow,'' O whispers next to her, and Petri can't say much more.

All around them, the walls of the cave – the cave the size of a chapel, with a ceiling that disappears in shadows – are shining with embedded crystals, reflecting the flames of the torches with red, orange and yellow sparkles that run over the floor. The floor itself is – Petri follows Missy's lead and jumps from the stairs, so she can kneel on it. It resonates strangely under her feet, the sound of hollowed out marble filling the empty space. It's covered in dust and dirt, and flowers – violet and pink and lilac alike – are growing in the cracks, but Petri can just about discern the motives etched onto it, the tree with a trunk made of several pieces of wood interwoven together, its autumn-colored leaves stretching to the far ends of the cave, in the motive of a cross, and at its extremities, where the leaves would turn into spirals, stand –

Missy's voice cuts through the air. ''Take your time,'' she says, tone filled with sarcasm. ''This is the main attraction of the tour.''

Petri swallows. Right.

In her head, the humming is a thrumming now. It would be a scream, but it's pleasant – a whisper projected with the full force of a train into Petri's head, calling to her, begging her to come back, to just –

Open the doors.

On the far right, a blue police box stands proudly, doors closed.

It’s beautiful, is the first thing Petri thinks; it’s beautiful and it has nothing to do here, the blue of it standing out starkly against the brown of the earth, the light at the top bathing the whole cavern in a yellow-white hue, the power emanating from it calling to her, beckoning, whispering words in her head that she can’t understand, not yet - but sound like a promise, a  _ soon _ that her whole being clings to desperately. 

Then O strolls past Petri and snaps her out of her trance once again.

''So.'' he asks, coming to a stop in front of Missy. ''What are these?''

''Am I giving the grand tour now?'' Missy raises a hand to her mouth, covering a yawn. ''Amazing. Just what I dreaded. Here,'' she gestures to her left, Petri's right, “is the box that allows you to travel across time and space. A right bother **,** this one is,'' she adds with a glare towards the blue box. ''And here,'' she waves her hand towards the other end of the tree, where a simple, nondescript square box stands. It's brown, with trails of blue over it, spiralling into abstract circles and motives. ''Is the box that allows you to lose your memories. Or regain them, depends on where you stand.''

Petri's breath catches in her throat.

O's eyes dart to the brown box, then come back to Missy. ''And which one is supposed to be the devil's gift?'' he asks, and there's a smile on his lips that mirrors perfectly the one on Missy's face.

''Depends on the century. But if you ask me,'' Missy twirls her umbrella and skits towards the brown box, ''I’d say both.''

Petri's voice is rough when she manages to work it past her throat. ''How does it work?''

Missy raises an eyebrow. ''The memories,'' Petri tries to clarify. ''How do we get them back?''

Missy sighs. She's standing near the memory box now, O a few steps behind her, and she – she could do anything, if she wanted. Petri knows neither of them are close enough to stop her if she were to raise her umbrella and smash it down on the box.

She takes a step forward.

Missy points her umbrella at her. ''Tut tut. No moving. I'm thinking.''

''About what?''

''I said no moving.'' O stops where he was walking towards her and Missy flashes white teeth at them. ''I need this box.''

''Why?''

Missy waves her hand dismissively. ''Long story. Killed some people, a few planets, and now I've got a whole bunch of angry prosecutors chasing me. They say they know how to kill a Time Lady, whereas I, for one, love being alive.''

''Time Lady,'' O echoes, as the name seems to take up all the space in Petri's head. ''Is that what...''

''What we are? Oh, yeah. Did I not mention it before? I can be so forgetful, sometimes. Anyway,'' she says, and goes back to staring at the box, as if Petri wasn't bursting with questions, ''I would quite like for these people to forget about me. Which is where this precious little thing comes into play.''

''You can't take it.''

The words leave Petri's mouth of their own volition. Missy turns to her, as does O. ''And what will you do to stop me?''

''I –'' Petri trails off, the cogs in her brains turning furiously. She hazards a glance at the box. The motives carved in the wood are still glowing their calm blue, but Petri has the distinct feeling that the light is stronger now. 

It’s not a stretch to decide that she’d like to see where that would go, and hence determine that the best course of action is to buy time. 

''Who was that man?'' Petri asks, and watches as the corner of Missy's lips twitches. ''The one, in the clearing, with that ghost that looked like you. Who was he?''

''There is no such thing as  _ ghosts _ ,'' Missy retorts coolly. ''What you see is fragments of memories – thoughts, that leaked out of Tuyin's box.''

''Tuyin,'' Petri repeats. ''Means 'gift' in ancient Stratonese.''

Missy looks at her. It’s almost like she’s impressed. 

''You could say that. It means ''gift of everything''. Derived from the human's myth of Pandora's Box, if I recall this boring museum guide correctly.''

''So,'' O says slowly. ''If the ghosts were memories, who... whose memories are they? And why are you in them?''

Missy tilts her head and looks directly at O. ''Isn't that just the question, dear?''

In the corner of her eyes, Petri can see tendrils of light spilling out of the box. She takes another step. 

''How many people have used Tuyin's box?''

''It's difficult to count, really. It's been used to throw down empires as well as to wipe petty things, like debts, from people's memories.” Missy takes on a mock educative tone, only to drop it immediately. “The legend of Tuyin's been passed down for generations.''

''How come it arrived here, then? And – and what does it wipe, exactly? And why would it  _ leak? _ How many people's memories have we seen?''

''As talkative as ever, I see,'' Missy says, with a sneer, but it lacks heat. ''You would know all of that if I let you open it, but...'' she trails off, a pensive look etched on her features. ''I still haven't decided what I want to do with you two.''

O slowly puts a hand in his pocket. He's shaking, Petri sees. But his voice is steady when he talks.

''At least tell us who forgot about you.''

Petri isn't sure why O fixates on this -- granted, she’s the one who started that line of questions, but it was only one between a hundred of others -- but it seems to work. Missy's lip trembles, again, and she passes a hand in front of her forehead. Behind her, the ground is bathed in a blue light that almost reaches the heel of her boots.

''Is it one of us?'' O presses down. Missy licks her lips, leaving them redder than before.

''That's the funny thing,'' she says, and if Petri hadn't been looking for it she wouldn't have heard the slight shiver in her voice. ''You both did.''

Petri inhales. It's – it's a lot to take in, with everything else, even though she had her doubts about it – was starting to be pretty sure of it, even. But it means...

She thinks of the grey-haired man, and the look in his eyes, the naked awe when he thought Missy wasn't looking at him. She thinks of the music they played together, discordant in places, harmonious in others. She thinks of O, learning the organ with Missy.

It -- kind of hurts, Petri realizes, but doesn’t have the time to wonder why. Missy is looking directly at her, blue eyes piercing and, not for the first time since she met her, Petri thinks maybe Missy can read minds. 

''It's not him.'' Missy says and -- someone takes a sharp breath, but Petri isn’t sure if it’s O or her . ''O is an idiot, but he has some semblance of a fashion sense.''

Petri's throat closes. ''Then...''

''Time Lords,'' Missy muses. ''Strange species. Some might call us immortal. See, we can regenerate our entire bodies when we're about to die.'' She levels her eyes with Petri's. ''Something in our genes. Makes us superior to every other species in the universe.''

Then -- 

It means -- 

Connecting the dots isn’t really hard. Petri’s quite good at that. She has them all spread out in her brains, clearly labelled, with a lot of question marks surrounding them. They form a shape already, quite approximative, but it’s all she needs to reorganize them into the correct picture, and maybe she’s getting her metaphors a bit jumbled but it doesn’t matter, because now she can see -- she can remember the way the man looked at Missy -- and it’s like someone ripped her hearts in half, when she realizes she can’t remember  _ why _ he looked at her like that. It almost physically hurts, to not have the memories of something that he -- she -- must’ve felt so intensely, once. 

It's a growl, low and animal, that escapes Petri's throat.

''Give me my memories back.''

Missy blinks.

''I can remember ancient Stratonese,'' she says, and the small press of the man's fingers to Missy's back flashes behind Petri's eyes, ''and not who I was. Who I am. My own face.'' She breathes, trying to work around the knot in her throat, in her chest. ''I need them back.''

Missy's face shifts, for the fraction of a second – the ghost of something like sadness passing through it, before disappearing, leaving nothing but her usual steely glare. ''You don't. You've seen them. You don't want them.''

Time Lords can change their faces, Missy said. Petri feels both young, and old. O was afraid of what could be so heavy he felt so much better without it.

She thinks about all the faces they saw, the children running, the old men with blood on their hands and tears in their eyes, and wonders, not for the first time, how old she is.

''That's my own call to make. You can't decide for me.''

''Maybe not for you. But I can for him.''

O blinks. ''Me?''

Missy smiles sweetly. ''You. And if you don't get your memories back, and she does, you'll lose each other. Is that what you want?''

''What –'' Petri's fists clench at her side, at the lost look O sends her, the silent plea in the curve of his lips and the knowing, smug smile on Missy's face that Petri wants nothing more than to erase. ''Why would you decide for him?''

''Oh, Doctor,'' Missy says, and Petri – Petri's mind stutters to a stop, because Missy is talking to her, but O is the doctor, he's the one healing and tending to the friars’ headaches, but Missy's tone is the same than the one the old man with a goatee used in the forest, to talk to the other man with blood on his cheeks, and it –

It feels right, somehow, and wrong at the same time.

''Don't you know it yet? I told you we can change faces. O knows what I mean.''

O's eyes are suspiciously shiny when Petri looks at him, and his hands are tightly-held fists at his sides. ''I'm,'' he says, and his hair is falling on his forehead but he doesn't push it away. ''I think I'm her.''

And Missy laughs, as if Petri's entire world hadn't come crashing around her. ''Good boy.''

O doesn’t react. 

In the corner of Petri’s eyes, the glowing of the box is almost blinding. The light is spilling everywhere, creating a new web of thin blue cracks all over the box, and the air is sizzling with energy.

Missy doesn’t seem to have noticed it yet. Her laugh is echoing all over the cavern. O still isn’t moving. 

Petri breathes, in, out, shuts off her brain, and dives for the box.

She realizes many things, while running, like the fact that the faces – all the faces they saw, from the children to Missy, are probably hers and O's. Past faces.

In her head, the blue box is calling, and singing of stars past and future and of a wide world, whispers echoing in her head as Missy’s laugh stops abruptly.

Petri stops caring. Her fingertips are almost grazing the edge of the box. There are only a few thoughts left in her head, circling insistently -- she wants to know her name, O’s name, she wants to remember O, and Missy, and each and every face of theirs.

She touches the box.

Missy screams. O too. Their voices mingle. Petri doesn't care. (She isn't called Petri).

The blue light fills the room.

Everything becomes dark.

** **

_ ''What are you doing here?'' _

_ The Master smirks. _

_ ''Same as you, love.'' _

_ The Doctor dives for the box as the bombs go off. _

–

_ ''I heard about this myth,'' Jack is saying over the intercom. ''About an artefact that can wipe memory.'' _

_ ''Had enough memory wiping, thanks.'' _

_ ''But it doesn't only wipe,'' and Jack's voice is smug with his discovery, ''it also saves them. Stores them in its core. If you can use it...'' _

_ ''Don't.'' _

_ ''I'm just saying. You could reverse engineer it.'' When she doesn't answer, he presses. ''Everyone deserves to know their past, Doctor. You included.'' _

_ She hangs up. _

–

_ ''Why do you even need it?'' _

_ She screams. She's screaming. She has to scream. The Tardis is jolting and somersaulting, sparks running across the console, and the iron tang of blood fills the air. On the other side of the console, the Master is laughing, his head thrown back, red running down his chin from where she hit him in the mouth. _

_ ''Why do you think I do?'' he spits, and there's fire in his eyes, like the one quickly spreading in the Tardis. ''I don't want this anymore. You don't either. And you won't let me fucking die.'' _

_ There are flames all around her, but the Doctor's blood is ice in her veins. ''Don't you dare,'' she growls. _

_ The Master smiles, terrible. ''You can't see it, but it's the best option. You'll understand, one day.'' _

_ It's maybe even worse that he says it in a soft voice. _

_ The Tardis jolts, once again, and behind the Master her doors open on the spinning void of the time vortex. Tuyin's box starts sliding down from where it dropped on the floor. They see it at the same time. _

_ ''Oh no you don't,'' the Master says at the same time the Doctor lets go of her grip on the console to grab for the box. _

_ He reaches it first. _

_ There's a blue light, and the sensation of falling. Then nothing. _

_ Petri opens her eyes. _

** **

The Doctor breathes.

The scent of earth fills her nostrils – earth with a rich, crusty musk. The Doctor immediately recognizes it as underground. The air is heavy with dust and years without wind, but also a vibrant, thrumming energy that the Doctor can't parse.

She cracks one eye open.

In front of her, lying on the ground, O sleeps.

No, not sleeping. The Doctor gets on her hands and knees with a grunt and licks her lips. Her tongue catches on something other than the smell of the earth. It's a metallic taste she thought belonged to the crystals embedded in the walls, but comes from the rivulet of blood running down the side of O's head.

Next to him, Missy is passed out too, in a heap of fabric, her umbrella clenched in one hand. There's more blood on its end.

The Doctor blinks. It's harder that she thought it'd be. Her eyelids seem to be weighing a ton. Her head is heavy too, too heavy for her neck and it’s hard to keep it upwards, but something like a trickle of cool water insinuates itself in her brains, gently stroking her burning thoughts like sore muscles to be eased. It disappears, leaving only four words behind, that feel like a sip of hot cocoa or the slide of her favorite jumper over her skin.

_ Welcome back, my thief _ .

The Doctor smiles, and opens her mind back to her Tardis.

_ Missed you _ .

The answering wave of warmth that cocoons her gives her enough strength to get on one feet. She puts her head in her hands at the vertigo that ensues, pressing her palms to her eyes hard enough that fireworks explode behind her eyelids.

O is hurt. The Master is hurt, she corrects. O is hurt, a voice in her brains repeats, insistent. Her lips are dry when she licks them again. In the dark behind her eyelids, she can see the Master when she punched him, square in the mouth, to try to take Tuyin's box back from his grip. It's the same smell that fills her mouth now, from where the blood has started to pool around O's head.

He has his memories now, she knows. She opened Tuyin's box when she touched it, the artefact only needing the smallest incentive to let go of the memories it was holding – too full, it was, wasn't designed to hold Time Lords' memories, to hold timeless thoughts and images. No more ghosts, the Doctor thinks blithely, and her fingertips tingle from where she brushed the fabric of Missy's robes that one time in the Vault – the first time Missy had let him join her for a play.

Missy, who didn't want them to get their memories back.

Missy, who said she was being chased by people who knew how to execute Time Lords.

Missy, with her bloodied umbrella that the Doctor remembers seeing go down on her when she dove for that box -- but her head is intact, and O's is not.

She lets out a pained grunt and raises to her feet.

Every muscle in her body aches.

In her head, the Tardis rumbles.

''I know,'' she moans, hands still pressed to her eyes. ''Just... gimme a minute, ok?''

The Tardis hums again, but it's gentle, and the Doctor would smile if moving didn't hurt so much.

_ The Doctor _ . The name sounds right in her head – at least better than ''Petri'' did. It fits in all the right parts and doesn't leave a sour taste behind everytime she thinks it. But it's still... wrong, somehow.

'' _ Don't call me that _ '', the man with the bloodied hands had said in the forest, to the one with a goatee. He said that because he didn't feel like he deserved it. It wasn't a title a man who killed could claim.

Her eyes land on O – the Master – where he lies on the ground. His hands are far from his chest, extended towards the Doctor.

He's hurt, the voice says again.

She looks at Missy, who appointed O as the convent's doctor, and tucked stray strands of hair behind Petri's ears.

On her right, the Tardis hums invitingly. There's a key hidden behind the P, but the Doctor knows her ship would open her doors if she asked. She knows there's a medbay, first door on the left after the console room. She knows a whole lot of things, and remembers a whole lot of faces, and yet her name still feels -- off, somehow. 

The Doctor. The doctor, when she was Petri, was O. O in his office, mixing tinctures and sitting friars down to talk about their nightmares and their sunburns. But she was healing people too, helping O, applying balms to strained hands, trying her own potions, and covering the burns on O's chest, the ones he got from their latest experiment, with bandages. 

Still. It doesn't feel like it's enough.

(It's never enough.)

The Doctor throws her head back, and lets out a guttural noise – mixture of pain and relief, that bounces across the walls, resonates eerily in the silence of the room, but it helps, in a way, helps her brains readjust just enough so she can remember that her name was never one she fully owned, always one she had to earn -- and so she leans down. Has just enough force to reach around the limp body, and take O's – the Master's – arm and hook it over her shoulder.

She'll come back for Missy, she promises herself. Track down Rafando, and his Fatality Index. Make sure Missy can ask for her – him – as her executioner. Make sure her past - Missy’s future - get offered the chance that was the Vault, those seventy-and-some years of constant battle, bickering, and the softness of sharing the same space. At one point she'll sit the Master down and they'll talk about O and Petri, about the Timeless Child, about Missy, and try not to kill or drive each other mad during the process. (She has little hope they'll manage it, but it's still hope, and she'll make it work, she swears.)

For now, she lifts the Master to the Tardis and to the medbay.

Heal now. Talk later.

(On the Doctor’s shoulder, the Master's head rolls. He's smiling.)


End file.
